It's five thirty in the morning.
My eyes are burning, but I am wide awake.
I have to write.
Something, anything.
My muse, at my shoulder, taunting me.
Write, write, right.
The tortured visages of Waugh, West, and Faulkner danse macabre through my head.
Before everything implodes.
I write these few words.
Nothing is everything.
I Shrug.
I Sigh.
I Scratch my balls
I go back to bed.
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