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The mania conspired to keep me from blogging (too many other things to do, do, do, do), to keep me from you, dear reader. But the truth is I’m less than poetic these days. My poetic plays consist of trazodone-induced neurological blunders, inverting numbers, declaring opposites. All of that is now gone and in its place, a void. A sleepless, hapless place that dreams and thoughts and intentions can’t seem to fill. I’m pretentious not pious. There’s nothing to see here.

SOB with me

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