A stream of conscious in the park on a February afternoon.

To write like Hemingway. How does one write like someone else? A futile concept, I sometimes think, because all literary genuises are praised for writing like no one else. When the sun starts to set it will get cold, and I’ll leave the park and I won’t pick up a pen until Monday, and that’s only because my job requires it. But the sun hasn’t set yet and I’m still here with pen in hand, shoes off, coat around my waist, a bench under my ass. This is my favorite park. It’s not very comfortable to write on a bench. Loose sheet of paper on top of a book about Hemingway’s first wife. I’m half-laying awkwardly, and not very comfortably, but I seem to be writing more legibly. Isn’t it strange to be alone in a crowded park. And in that case I think we’re always alone, and I think that all the time. And there’s a pianist playing to my right, and he’s alone too. Alone with a piano, and I lay here alone with a pen and a fiction novel about Hadley Richardson and a bag of loose french fries. To my left, a man sits alone with a book and some shopping bags, and next to him a man smokes alone, and next to him an old man in a hat sits alone and watches people walk by, and the people walk by alone talking to their respective company. And what are flags for, anyway? It’s funny, I guess, I often think about writing better, using proper words, and when I do I feel silly and unnatural, because I guess I don’t often use those words aloud, but I often write things down I don’t say, and I only feel silly about using proper words because I don’t like myself when it comes down to it, and I judge myself too harshly, and the fear drives me away from success or ambition or both because the two are very similar. A homeless-looking girl with dreadlocks sits on the grass, and she’s looking at herself in a compact mirror, and it makes me laugh because nothing is as it seems and life is quite an illusion.