There's no sophic sense, here. To find. Wringing out words like wet maps. Won't get you anywhere. That's actually a lie. Exception: accidental novels on loan in the washing machine.

. . . gasp . . .

I'm still ringing dull and empty like finger-plunking the side of an empty [European] aluminum can. I still haven't been writing. Words just don't seem to come like they used to. Maybe that's a good sign. Sometimes I fear that the writing comes only during my cold-binging moments of insanity. That's probably a lie. Or isn't.

I went to the sun.

And now I'm back.

Here there is me.