what a strange day, i wrote my way through it, a few more dents into the details of two stories i am writing, i don't know when i will be finished but it should be soon at this rate. the day just flew by, one moment it was dark, then light, now it's dark and midnight. where does time go when your in your zone. it don't fucking exist. such an illusion we create around time, it moves everything forwards towards decay and entropy. only the spirits journey matters really. that's why i always say time is just a way of stopping everything happening at once. 

i'm still freaked out by whats happened to the characters in my story, it's like she says write it and it manifests.

now i have a certain responsibility that has come to a fork in the road. do i write as a writer, completely free of any boundaries or do i take responsibility and adapt narratives to have positive outcomes. it's a strange situation to be in, and i can only think to betray my writers integrity would damage me as a writer so i have to just write as i write and hope there's a distinction between a spell and a story, and i am certain it's intention. my intention is to write whatever my muse directs me to write and my muse is a universe of possibilities, infinite characters and personas and tales rich with all sorts of diverse experiences and styles. it's like singing, you gotta find your voice and mine is pretty much a mix of influences that would never get published today which is why self publishing may work. no one wants to read these same story, no matter the genre, no one should have their intelligence insulted by some sort of manufactured boy band equivalent of the novel. it's better to explore, experiment and be dangerous with narrative. i mean  painting had its evolution but writing seems to be going backwards after the great provocateurs have left.