and then...drips

I think of kinetics. Kinetics in sound, in view and picture. Narrative movement. How to let a work of fiction move through time without relying on cuts. 

I don't like chapters in my final works. They take up too much room. You can cut something short with chapters, but within each chapter there must be some sphere of unity, some sense of fresh conflict and fresh resolution. It ends up taking more time. I only use chapters in drafting. If I use them at all. 

There's visual space. Stars and the like. J.K. Rowling managed it, right? Alright. But there's got to be other ways. Items outside of "After a moment" or "An awkward silence happened." I mean come on. Make movement. 

I don't mean a clock ticking. I mean a faucet dripping. A head throbbing. What about larger alternatives? Forget the "month later." How many times has he vomited in the meanwhile? Beck, I'm tired. Writing is a solitary enterprise. I find glowing leaves under fuzzing proteins. I lie awake while he lies, awake. He takes off a jacket and another jacket and another and another unzip unzip and there's always a new one growing underneath. 

I'm refining a new portfolio called Trachea. I could think about it proper if I weren't so busy with Cope Syndrome. It has no value over the novel, though. It will get me where I need to be to eat. Hunger is key, and meanwhile I have found an external whose mind is just as beautiful as his body. Hello, are you reading? I doubt it. Focus on distance and kinetics, and I may get back to body. I have seen much of that lately. Top knots and top lines and odd skulls and long backs and veins seeking a place to live. These healthy boys of the outside. What makes your hair flutter glistening? You are. 

Good night balcony bones, don't crumble now. Take care of boys leaning.