Windy, washy Wednesday afternoon. Sit at my computer screen, while away precious free minutes of my life. Blade Runner Blues meets Playground Love, the world an oyster glued shut. Who, where, when… doesnt matter. Why? No why?
A writer – a true writer – is an escape from mediocrity. A light unseen, even to the writer itself, gallantly, mercilessly chasing invisible shadows. No need for reflection, contemplation, commiseration – only transliteration of the big to real.
Point? What point? To write to a point is to merely prolong an invisible scattershot, inviting in voices that don’t belong.
So, what’s left? Souls, that’s what. Fearless unseens coursing from the page to the eyes to the heart to life. That’s what matters. It’s all about doing. Nothing more, nothing less.

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