oh i write brilliantly when the sun has been hiding behind the clouds for months at a time and i’m frozen. my down jackets and extra layers of all-humanity-is-suffering-alongside-of-me socks bring out the best in my desire for clouds and trees and something which will bring me joy. the hope on the horizon of the summer they claim will come.

but then i up and moved to where the sun will never fail to shine and i cannot pass the hour without both a hat and sunglasses (an accessory i’ve never used in my whole life and thus had to purchase the kind that fades in and out but embarrasses my wife when indoors and still slightly faded – but i love it because at the core of me i love when i’m judged a fool). now the mountains scream beauty to me every day and the last of our issues are being worked out in a city that actually serves donuts.

yes i’m afraid i’ve shot myself in the foot. or as a writer should perhaps better say – in the hand. i fear these bones will continue to type or write into oblivion or at least eternity and be wrought with not even the slightest of inspiration thus bringing you fear, trembling, joy, love, beauty, and everything you ever longed for

sans poetry.