where does it go?
the muse i mean, the spark and fire that leaves the mind ablaze with words and thoughts and feelings that simply must take form, be embodied on a page, that little bit of something or other that allows you to put down and encase in black and white the passing nothings moving between the ears and eyes and causing an ache in the heart and soul, what socrates decided was from the gods...

my thoughts sound like so many dry leaves scraping across the ground, feel like empty husks...



*hmph*



do you need any more proof that i am young?

but it doesn't make the ache go away