Henry laying in bed at 6 am, just awake from a dream. He dreamed he was a full-blown narrative writer who worked at it.
He had a taste in his mouth of what he wasn’t and what he was, but overall he felt like a slothful and sullen shadow of a writer.
The soul-maggot was eating him from the inside and he felt shameful and inadequate.
William F. Burroughs called it a parasitic being—
Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.
After reading Burrough's take on it he was, point blankly, a matter of factly, without prevarication, scared shitless and wondering—should I be worried?
Henry soul-bound and circumscribed saying,
I don’t give a shit!
I don't give a shit! was the salt of the earth, the armor the dreaded soul maggot couldn't penetrate.
I don’t give a shit!
I don't give a shit! was the salt of the earth, the armor the dreaded soul maggot couldn't penetrate.