I guess, earthman, the thing is I don't come up with a story first, really. I come up with a subject, topic, theme, whatever, and I construct a story around that. Typically it's more of an epiphany than a slowly thought out story-board, however the epiphany itself usually leads to a basic skeleton around which I make the story. In fact, here, I came to my dorm room one day, sat down, took a pen, and wrote this non-stop until I reached the last period:

"Thomas heard curates and academics lecture endlessly in the museum. Art for art's sake is not art. Art for one's own sake is not art. Art for others is not art. None of this matters; this is not art. Statue of David, balls but no rectum, constipated, I'd bet. Replica anyhow. Hasn't shat for a thousand years--friend and lover to the armless, assless Venus de Milo. Passing by dave, Thomas took his usual seat in the Monet section. Back room of the museum. Curator. Panting. The woman with him breathes heavily. Beating into the wall behind the Monet--virile, victorious, pleased with himself, God what a curator. Call you tomorrow. **** that. You're fired. New secretary, same wall, same Monet rattling on the other side.

Every day he watched, every third it shook--scheduled. Penciled in by the curate; linear time, power, schedule, control, framed painting, bedded down with Procrustes. He's protected--a son of Troy. The plaster ceiling--crumbling, flaking--dusts the marble floor. Crumbling, flaking, these concepts are my own. Who told you the floor was marble? Limestone floor, I will not lie...not intentionally.

He stood, still watching the shaking masterpiece. Masterpiece still suffering sodomy, but not stillsuffering. Nothing immobile. All erodes. Water cutting rocks. Canyons one hundred thousand years in the making.

Still watching and stillwatching Thomas listened, stilllistening, to the sound against the wall. They were about to finish, he could hear it. Ten minutes, what a wanker. Way to ride, cowboy. In the last throes, the painting fell, the frame cracking as it hit the marblelimestonesurface.

Thomas could not control. How could he when. It's perfectly excusable that. I can't be judged if. Why do I have to think about. Done. Art is voyeur; a seed--denied, ignored, suppressed, unleashed--sown into stony ground."

Compare that to what I have now.