I am deep into the silent, speculative part of my process. That time between rough notes and feverish freewrites. That time when I stare out the windows for half an hour or more, pace the hallways, whisper questions to myself on my way to the mailbox. That time when writing is no longer literal, a simple act. Writing is a state of being that takes me over. It is physical, tactual, hallucinatory. Everything is called into question.
Intimacy and surveillance. These are the questions that gnaw at my days, chewing the silence and spitting it back at my heels.