Course it’s crazy. I don’t have a single clue where the words or the rhythm or whatever it is comes from. So, yeah, it’s gonna be shit when it suddenly stops, because it will. It kinda seriously pisses me off that many people can’t seem to understand the… rather layman’s attempt, actually, at high-end literature. Because, it doesn’t do what Joyce does – it doesn’t entirely go too far away from the correct story-telling way of natural English grammar. Joyce is the kind of talented any writer can push themselves to be by not actually pushing themselves all that much. He’s all word-of-mouth, people telling more people that he is great, even though no-one seems to have read the book Ulysses, for example. I’m sure he had something, course he did. However, with mine, and again, when read aloud to one’s self and off of the page, it hits home. Depends on your pace and roll of tongue. Perhaps, with time, even in a manner that few can surpass for its bare-essential essence and its ability to literally bend the words and the importance of their synonymous use. Sia says that about her style, that she can bend any word to suit. Fair call, and I do get that, but bend it to suit who!? It’s vastly important that the reader can understand it, too, and that is why I make sure to make it worthy on the page, screen, whichever, for the literary enthusiast who analyses each and every word for its organised worth against the eye-line, while also injecting a serious element of audiovisual aplomb into the mix when the same piece is being read aloud and away from the page. Why do I get to talk like this? All up my own ass and what not? Which I’m not, by the way. Just venting to have something to read back. Because I’ve earned it like a motherfucker. I was studying this shit in hospital when doctors couldn’t for the lives of them sort out my particular OCD. I studied every possibility with words even when I was hiding from my own family, too petrified to trust anything. Anguished and brain-locked in a manner which genuinely would be right up there with the imagined anxiety felt on being marched into a shower at Auschwitz, fully knowing your own fate all along. The OCD battle makes a multi-faceted international career in literature seem like a cake-walk in comparison. It is going to be a cake-walk. Just, I don’t need the comparison anymore 🙂