Before I write, I have a box full of words in my head. Completely put together. Beautiful. Intricate. Detailed. Like a box for a puzzle. They are waiting--begging--to be put to life.

But when it comes time to actually write it down, it comes out in a heaping mess. Piles and piles of errors. Pages and pages of shit. And questions. And thoughts. This is absolutely wrong. Frantic. How did this get here!? Mistakes. Missing parts. This is not what my puzzle looked like in my head. Somehow something went wrong between my head and this page. There was some sort of disconnect from my brain to my finger tips. My brain blames my fingers. And my fingers can't think so they just accept it. Poor slaves, always doing the labor and taking the blame.

Nonetheless, as I'm writing, I double check the box in my head, verify everything. Yes, this is the right box maybe the wrong puzzle? Try again. And again. I write more and more. I feel like I'm digging a hole for my own writing death. The pieces don't fit! They just don't fit! So I try to comb for errors. Try to salvage it. There's still time. I still have time. I havn't ruined this puzzle yet, right? I try and try. Piecing together words. Combing out errors. Copy, paste, write, delete. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Until I have combed and deleted more than I have actually written.

And all I have left on the page is advice from my fingers:

Start over tomorrow. New rules: Look for puzzle instructions and no more digging.

It's so hard not to fall in love with James Stewart.

Watch this

tearin' up the wild.

As free in form as an amoeba just busy, busy busy. The big show is inside my head,

Vonnegut, you've got the strength of the Greeks.

There are plenty of good reasons for fighting," I said, "but no good reason ever to hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too. Where's evil? It's that large part of every man that wants to hate without limit, that wants to hate with God on its side.