space and time are limited. Logan is the typer and Noah is the hand writer. And it’s never pretty. One bro furiously smashing plastic squares, the other furiously carving ink onto paper. Later, the two are brought together in a clash of abusive language, each brother claiming the other is bipolar, illegitimate, the bastard son of an entire city. That their mother sang lullabies to one and terrible songs to the other. That his diaper was rarely changed and it ruined his brain. That he has written absolute tripe. That it belongs in the trash heap of failed street poets. We yell and scream. We throw chairs and hot cups of coffee. Punch holes in the sheet rock . . . And somehow, before Robert arrived, we had embedded words into the memory of our computer.
Writing the book brought back the excitement, allowed us to relive the boom and noise, the chaos and uncertainty.