By Damien Knight
Is wide awake dreaming
Is a crowded room alone
Is darkness light
Is lost never found
The oxymoron
Is this dead life
That I keep
Insisting upon
Black blood drips
Upon her delicate
Pale living flesh
And I slip
Into a realistic fantasy
As the death mixes
With her life
A pleasurable sea
But eventually I awake
And the oxymorons
Are all dried up
With my empty tears
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A heathen conceivably, but not, I hope, an unenlightened one
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I am a writer who often dawdles (wastes time). So here I am, procrastinating by talking about organization, writing tips, teaching writing tips, and other random things to keep up my writing habits, when I should be writing my novel, and here you are, dawdling as well. C'mon in and join me for some dawdling (and pretending we're not).
