Why write at all. Why write. Why do I write? Why? What do I add?
How do I write? How? First what? Then? Question mark?
For my own enjoyment? Not anymore, it seems. Not at all.
For a greater dot dot dot?
Better than the other guy.
Better for good, eternity. An eternity. My name and eternity, synonymous. Binominal.
Why then? Whythen.
I come from a town called Whythen. It burdens itself with suppression. The last thought you think will be gone in a blink when the regime cracks down on espresso.
Mocha latte con leche.
I don’t even drink caw…
Then what am I missing?
Focus. A focus. And enthusiasm for anything. Nothing impresses me more than everything.
At face value please and hold the milk.
But two years ago I was enthused by… it didn’t matter as much then. At all. Just enjoyment. Something to do because there was nothing else I wanted to do. At all. Believe the hype kids. It won’t sell otherwise.
So… now what?
I have no one to blame but myself, and nobody else to impress. Just enough time left to forget, be reminded, and then flush into depression. Empty American style with a pull downwards, rather than swirl, force and imagine otherwise.