It's two am and I know I won't be falling asleep for a couple of hours yet.
I'm sitting in bed, in the dark, furiously pounding on the keys, half afraid to look to see if I've typed anything of consequence.
I'm not a monkey.
I don't want to be a monkey.
That was just something that needed saying.
Monkeys mean nothing to me.
I used to do all my best writing at three in the morning, maybe I should go beat off for an hour and then come back and give it another try.
Yeah, I actually typed "furiously pounding on the keys".
How did Kerouac do it?
I would have spent all my time making sure that the teletype paper wasn't bunching up.
One of these days I'm really going to climb some old hairy ass mountain and scream my head off.
