what of that thing?  a writers worse curse, I guess

but then again, what of curse?  what does it mean to be tortured by ones art?

non non non the apple falls and it falls

oh oh oh the sprinkling ties tickle the membrane of fruit flies


I'm just messing around, isn't it great!  to have nothing to say at all??

its like being encapsulated in a warm vessel, while the thorns on the outside continue to prickle the desert ground as it is blown in the wind

unaffected by bursts, emotion, thinking is so over rated

to wish for the boredom of an office job, ironically, but secretly know that somewhere inside you are something

but don't feel the need to show it to anyone at all!  the bluejay nurtures its young that never need to leave the nest!  

and one thought leads to another, cushioned by an inner strength

self esteem, perhaps

what of boring???  that thing which I've sneered at for so long, looks so welcoming, an external cloak, a hiding place for a muskrat whose had enough days of contemplation, fixation, beyond his wildest imaginations, skipping across the fence with a front of business as usual, a tie and a vest

frustrations that are trivial, anxieties that are irrational, a normal, normal
normal man