WRITER’S BLOCK
Hitchcock awoke with a dream hard-on and no-one to use it on.
Facing my reflection in the full-length mirror of the bathroom at half-past seven this morning and wearing nothing but an old navy-blue T-shirt bearing the word TROUBADOUR in white copperplate lettering, the bottom part of which was distended by a sizeable but perceptibly declining erection, I recited the abovementioned sentence—the opening gambit of my long-meditated work of fiction—seven times, theatrically modulating my voice with each iteration and ending with an hysterical falsetto I judged totally inappropriate. (more…)
