I can't think of a damned thing to write. Not so much procrastination just pure blank thoughts. Nothing strikes me with enough force to move me. It's driving me nuts. I can write. I know I can, it's just there's nothing in my mind to transfer to my finger tips to the keys to the screen. It's unfamiliar, to have no words of wisdom or witty quotes. It's truly art. To be unable to call forth at beck and will these beautiful words i'm so proud of. I have the urge to write something true to me yet dazzle others with its irony. That's what I do. I trick and deceive. That's an art as well. No one said art was ever honest or noble. To each his own I suppose. But I find my ironic clashing of words beautiful. Something I simply cannot get enough of, even when I read it over and over it never gets old. I can know it by heart and the bitter sweetness of it is still fresh to the tongue.
