The result of my previous work you’ve read is not something that has just flowed down a current of creativity, dont be fooled, the amount of wasted words wilted, stuck to wine stained cedar desks and lost in distraction of cigarette smoke and the blood of a workdays fist, the open windows on a computer of unfinished work is only proof that I can see a reflection in the screen when it’s turned on too, the lament of the mouse and “don’t save” turns the clicking into grinding teeth, oh, yes.. sometimes I can write a piece in minutes, but other times, I’m either rekindling a relationship of drywall and knuckle, pouring drinks, lighting cigarettes, answering phone calls, coughing through fields of wet cement in my throat, or staring at the paper as a mirror in a casket, when I sit down and write with cigarettes and drinks the outside world doesn’t exist but at the same time reality has never existed as much as it has at that moment.