The best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
When I work out which one I am, I'll stop writing.
I wore colour today.
It wasn't that bad.
I feel like an agoraphobiac bragging about making it to the mailbox.
The homeless manic depressive tunnel dweller whistled at me today. I've walked past him almost every day for a year and a half and he chooses today to whistle. Not sure how to take that.
Frank says:
Welll, It's Not Me Dear. I have become a Mature Man, One of Reason And of Science
One of these days i'll write something coherent.
