There are times when the English language fails me.
Times in between flicks of the lighter and gulps of cheap ***** in which a brief memory consumes me and brings me into the moment I made a promise to never let my hobbies become habits.
Particularly those that took me away from what I was and propelled me into a place where I could be painfully numb.
Remembering when I used to write with a fervor that was inspired solely by feeling and a lust to remain a pure and unadulterated man, determined to keep his art a reflection of self.
There is no word in the English language I can use to describe my disappointment after those times.