“
Time for him to hit the keys, stroke the consonants, pluck the vowels. When he gets back to the campsite, he immediately puts himself to work, smoking like a chimney in his tent, sitting cross-legged, and trying to keep pace with his mind. “Slow down, you bastard!” But it will not; he will have to speed up. “Come on, hands! Get your goddamn shit together.” He writes on well into the night, sweating like a mule, depositing a plethora of verbs and adjectives on paper and sending out contradictory vibes into the marshes and forest; he smiles like a dang fool during this ungodly hour, this evil hour, this hour of the wolf.
”
”