Sheesh. From whence comes such a drought? I am without thought pertaining to journeys towards self-expression. Or even self-indulgence, my absolute FAVORITE INDULGENCE! WHEEEEEE! SEE? THAT WAS JUST FOR MY ENJOYMENT! AND YET SO SHORT-LIVED!

I'd take up kite-flying if I wasn't so scared of moths.

(what?)

It's true. I am a man without miles of mirth to molest the masses with once again, even if my powers of alliteration are still up to speed. Oh, morbid moose. Oh, melacholy monkey. Oh, murky moo-moo. Oh... m. And m again.

Dinkel dabby doo-doo dinkel.

All right, lost it again.

I have no explanation for you as to why all of a sudden nothing seems to be worth writing. Maybe I'm in the incubating process and once I steer myself back on course, after hours of refelction and possibly finding some fancy drug to become addicted too, then I will create something... pretty. Until then, dear friends, I must wait for my film contract, my play to go up, Zoetrope to get back to me about my latest submission, in order to stroke the vanity that so becomes me, like a wide-brimmed hat or an oily moustache.

In the meantime, find time to boogie, embrace that which is far away, and eat bran. Lots of it. And don't enjoy Coke. No matter what they tell you.

PS: Melancholy has a "n" in it, in case you were interested in checking my spelling. I type fast, I'm not an idiot. Today.