Someone once told me
that Hemingway said
to write drunk
and edit sober.

But Hemmingway was an alcoholic
and an *******.

But I am drunk
and writing more words than I have in weeks.

So I find myself in a box
(not unlike a cat)
with walls
filled with words
both mine and
his

I am following in the footsteps
of a man
who died
on a Sunday
with his own gun
set off by his own hand.

But he was a drunk, and I am drunk too.

But he was great, and I want to be great too.

How strange and sad a conundrum.