I work on a whaling vessel, months at a time, trimming sheets and honing harpoons and barreling molten blubber for lamp oil.
I write sometimes, when bunked during storms, on paper I stole just off the waterfront.
Writing is my psychic escape plan. I anticipate being thrown off the ship, and when I am, I will fly into the wind on my sheets of paper, propelled by ink, caring not where it will take me.
When I write like some pompous motherfucker it is so I can laugh at the pompous motherfucker doing the writing.
