There is no room for complacency in poetry but when you haven't written a poem (a good one nonetheless) in several days, I guess there's no complacency to be found at all and when one ill-advised incompetence shrouds your shrewdness with nonsensical proportions, you must seek another with equal intelligence to occupy each other to accomplish your resourcefulness. Then again, I am the nincompoop who tries to write an such disruptive environments but before I can print one letter on my hydro-allergic portable typewriter, I must read my way out of an avalanche of books to find myself lost in a frozen wasteland of my own imagination, otherwise my auspicious augury will deteriorate into empty words of despondency. Half my day is drudgery and the other half is alcoholism, one incites the other; and the other is complete exuberance to forget about it all. No one can match my laziness as it rises high above the clouds and my ambition struggles to stay afloat in the swamps of recognition. I don't want to be remember as a man who worked hard his entire life but as a kind soul who you had some good times with over a few beers. If there is one thing I could leave behind for the swarm of living things with pondering minds: Don't work hard, even at drinking and don't drink responsibly, just professionally... and do it with all your heart.