So many private posts again. Nothing that has come to fruition. I have nothing and everything to say. And sometimes I look back at this writing and feel as a man does who has accidentally uttered a terrible joke that sounded funny in his head. I wish for something powerful and wise to say but there is a bank of fog in my head that seems to simultaneously expand and become dense the more I try to think. Why does a man's mind feed on its own thoughts just as an animal feeds on its own young or itself? Surely, a natural process that has purpose beyond what we can understand, but right now that fog bank will not clear from the answer that I am sure is written on a wall just beyond. All ridiculous and I'm just trying to say that I am at another writer's block, and it will not go away, and the crickets are loud tonight and the air is still and I am alright with just sitting here and soon I will sleep.
The sentences are broken and the ideas in transit break up and bunch together like mini traffic jams.
