Better to write more frequently I suppose. The ol' muscles are getting weak. Sometimes it is hard to write. I sit in the car in the commute and feel nothing. I sit at work and my head is full of ideas with nowhere to go. People behind me talk much about nothing. I sit at home and am only filled with sighs. Hope it is a phase.
A rich inner world fades in and out of view at least. Connected to a whole pulsing nervous system desperate to express itself under the cracked concrete of empire.
I realize hedonism is not necessarily or completely evil, but merely pitter patterings of a people trying to tap what's left of emotions that were long extinguished after being dragged down by dying ideas. Creation is salvation, as it always is.
