diary / by Edward Mullany


Some mornings I’ll sit here, not knowing what to write about, until that in itself, the not-knowing, becomes the thing I write about, though I suppose, in that case, I’m not writing about a thing so much as the absence of a thing, unless the not-knowing is a thing, the way silence can be a thing, if in fact silence can be a thing, which maybe it can’t be, I don’t know.