Blue. Sight unseen. Voice unheard. Terror. I don’t know what I’m writing here or if anything I write has any or will ever have any value. Why does this involve? Try me. I don’t know.

I’m in a rut. I think single words on the screen equates to depth. I know better than that.

In the quest between writing without thinking and original thought, who the fuck wins?

We’re tiny platforms where crying terror waits as it floats over chocolate. Open mikes over claims of plastic. I see what I write and I write only what I see.

I have yet to find what I am good at instead of what I want to be good at. It’s easy to want and harder to have. Isn’t the fun in pursuing the have? Only if pursuits are achievable and not sad hobbies is it fun.

I greatly fear that I have nothing important to say.

As of late the clocks burned, the black hole questioned, and time travel disappeared. If light is the infinite being then let me live in its stream and watch the universe flow past. Dynasty. Einstein said when an object approaches the speed of light it slows asymptotically to near the speed of light.

Little steps on a long road covered by dreams of failure. Keep going, even if it the steps bring you backwards.

The feelings ride high on ocean ships of spirits. Where did I go wrong? Take what makes you special and specialize. Consternation: does writing make me special? What is special? When is special? What dish am I bringing to the potluck? Jack’s trades? Am I crying over a mother’s milk? Changes and expand.

Random words with meaning only for me. Isn’t that how the world works? What’s wrong with a clichéd world that a hammer couldn’t fix? No skill, raise the rockets and lower the flags. Rhyme and rhythm over meaning: Zap, zap. Brain fried over onions and grease. What to cry. When to dry.