The question I get once upon a never:
From where does your writing stem?

The answer is inside, with a clever, witty reply, and an honest tinge in the vocal happenings.

So another never ever asks:
Where are you, friend? How are the days? What has happened to your writings?

The answers are: somewhere. Not great.

And lastly,
I oft perceive my writings as weakness
And outer showings of a deeper flaw, so forgive me if I seem aloof.
I have not yet managed to find the proper skin to settle.