Shed think you were lame.

Just some thoughts I had about writing.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then. ...I contain multitudes. Walt Whitman. Song of myself. Our father who art in heaven. Forgive me. It struck me as funny. He's the father of American poetry. And Virgina wrote one thought to the next. Stream of consciousness. You know. The way you think. She also wrote an essay. " What if Shakespeare had a Sister?" And, " The Angel in the House". I highly recommend these reads. Especially if your writing's out of the box. If you cry against the machine. If you rebel against little tin soldiers lined up and forced to march in formation, even if their legs are mangled. Trees with broken branches. "What did you mean to say?"
You don't treat living things that way. Not poems. Not tin soldiers.

Reviews

[Degare]

Your writing is consciousness fluxing through, a sentient intraverted errance, perhaps fleeing from an entitled yet dangerously anachronistic irony.
Like you use recklessness as anchor from these perhaps well intentioned yet ephemeral deities of meaning before they resuscitate as zombie simulacra
Those last lines were actually crazy good.
And yes, Woolf was(is) a goddess.