Im back, I suppose. Sometimes the wells of pain from which we draw our best work are blocked by delusions of grandeur or in my case adequacy. Sometimes brief flickers of light in an otherwise dreary world severe our connections to the places we use to write. Rarely is it that enough for me to feel happy but it's definitely enough to kill my productivity, but I'm back, feeling dead inside, and ready to try and poor as much of my self-loathing into my laptop as I can without backflipping into open traffic.
