Another late hour, the skull swims with beer and conversation and last-minute Alan Moore dialogue. So happy that I can even consider myself a writer, yet so angry, so bitter at the silent times, the days and months when nothing appears on the page. Which is the true love, writing or reading? Of course, both feed upon themselves, but damnation, I cannot sacrifice either, even when it's so much easier to read than write. I love these times when I feel just removed enough from quotidian life to exalt my own existence, all the utter shit down in the gutter where it belongs, synapses sparkling like the stars in the firmament.

Dawn will come soon, breaking against the alcohol-enriched shores of my consciousness, which I will escort out of waking hours with old Dungeons & Dragons books and a melancholy I cannot explain to anyone. So alone, so crippled, so hopeful, so full of fleeting love and desire of a world that will never be, and never should be, if only to guarantee that art will always have a place in the grey and misguided existence we all share.