Life is untidy. My writing is messy. Life yo-yos up and down. My writing undulates. I do not fly straight. Akin to a broken arrow, I yaw in the wind. I write the way that I lived, without submission to silly rules and without undue modesty.

A period of profound depression can trigger a period of hysterical writing. We create our own afflictions; it is only right that we must cure ourselves.

Writing is a solitary venture. Making use of a soundless void in the vortex of time the author enters the realm of restoration, an undertaking where he or she explores that private psychic space of the self. In this mystical state of heightened awareness, the writer investigates the soul’s grievances, and diagnoses and treats their grim afflictions.

The passage of time will ultimately obliterate the pallid signs of my toneless existence. My faint light will disappear entirely in the ebb and flow of the sprawling continuum of time, the impeccable sea of perpetuity that yawning encasement serves as the impeachable mantel for the inescapable predicament that horns the human condition.