This is the crap i come up with

The thing is- I don't care, all there is is the writing and if the writing stops- well let's just agree that the writing will never stop, that it will go on and on maybe even if it shouldn't, it can't be plugged, it can't be turned off no matter how bad it gets. It does get bad, terribly bad, horribly bad, its just that it's all there is see- and if it ends well the trees will loose their leaves, the stars will fizzle away in dried up ponds where there won't even be a carcass, not even the fossil of anything that never was, nothing will have gone to seed so nothing else can grow, the black soil will have become a colorless dust, Jim would utter pelagic not upon eager ears but to the dry hollow husk of a dead anemone shell and even the shell would be not a shell but a few calciferous shards laying in a dusty wooden bowl and the bowl but a pile of sawdust in a black and white photograph of a woodcarver's shop and the woodcarver just the memory of a buried infant boy and the boy just an amorous glint in someone's eye who never saw a thing.