I’m going to have to abandon this any minute now. This writing life. The writing life
right now. But I also have that feeling on a daily basis—that I’ll have to abandon it.
Not for something sensible or anything. But because I’ll run out of words. Not run
out of things to talk about. But words. I live in fear that they will no longer serve me.
One day, my last word will be written. And that day I will die, but it will not be my
last on earth. I’ll die and be forced to continue my existence. I make up the words to
write and they won’t love me the way I love them. And they will abandon me. So I
prepare myself to abandon them first. I must leave. I must cheat. I must break them.