If I don't use them, the thought stays a draft forever.

Writing yesterday's entry, which used my cell phone's text feature to create a dialogue, I thought about all the times that I've been waiting for a friend in a bar. When I have my Hemingway Notebook (of Doom™, obviously) I can write in it, but sometimes I don't want to be burdened by a bag. Heaven forbid I'm carrying the HNoD™ in hand and forget it in some ridiculous drunken moment. When I'm HNoD™-less, I'll write notes to myself as saved text message drafts.

Some of them are drafts, literally, like this one (which I eventually tweeted:

The unstable projects its oscillations on the observable, the stable object.

Others are prompts for historical treatises I'll likely never research, like this thought on the "face-in-the-window" trope of horror movies, which arose when I walked past a slew of house parties on my way to Crane Alley:

More to the image obsession than face value. What does the face in the window represent? Nesting, a constellation of meaning. Paranoia. Desire for private, intimate. Why did horror movies tap into it? What cultural process?

Sometimes I become obsessed with words, like the term Gertrude Stein used to describe some of Ernest Hemingway's early fiction:

Inaccrochable. He wrote in a whisper, a conspiratorial matrix, murmurs and secrets and confessions

They can be Emo Most Epic (and/or riffing off of Agnes Heller):

Understand the intransigent truth that I can be mad at you, wrapped up though you are in that shallow image of narcissism that draws you to me/Where is an oyster for my head?/Lorca, you can't perceive this: the cryptics in which I encode my life are protection. Or are they из-за так называемых недостаток ... That's when I know it's gone too far, the Russian. The abyss. I don't know the tightrope. The funny thing is the free fall doesn't feel anything particular.

or completely incomprehensible to me the next morning (I'm pretty sure this one was "Should I go to the next bar or go home?):

Count an imaginary unit before you follow them into the inferno you know you should not perpetrate our sins made of the worst kinds of desecrations. Self-loathing is quaint. So naive when I wanted to love her.