How sad is nothing

Just write dammit.
Shouldn't that be our battle cry?
I mean, if you don't write, all those words get crammed up into your brain and you become sluggish and constipated and hard to live with.
Who cares if your writing is shit?
I mean, if it's shit you can always delete it, or swear on a stack of bibles that somebody else wrote it and put your name on it.
But if you don't write it, shit or not, you've got nothing, and how sad is nothing staring back at you from your very own personalized template?
Let me leave you with this.
Write or die.
Too harsh?
How about fifty four forty or fight.
Or, the best laid plans of mice and men ... something ... whatever.
Or, we're waste deep in the big muddy and the big fool says to march on.
Or, Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce Benjamin?
Or, I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you in worn out shoes.
Or, the country that controls magnetism controls the world.

Anyway, I had this dream last night. It was one of those profound dreams, that even though I can't remember what it was about it just sort of lingers there ready to explode into my consciousness if the right sensory button is pushed, but that button is never pushed, and after awhile whatever it was just regresses back into the sublime nothingness or your memory banks, never to be heard from again unless you have some life crisis, and then it all rushes out slowly at first and then all at once like like the air out of an ever expanding hole in a pricked balloon.

Shut me the fuck up, good night.