Strolling down West Alabama at 7 AM to buy beer is a peaceful experience. There's not much traffic. The air is clear. Slightly sullen kids and paint-spattered old men ride by on bicycles. The seemingly condemned apartment complex at 1707 appears even more desolate and compelling. And, if you're walking down the right side of the street, you may even encounter the mutilated remains of what appears to be a manicotti or ravioli, a bludgeoned orangey mess smeared a good foot and a half across the pavement.

I've been pondering my fate as a writer lately. Given that I've gone almost a year without producing any new work of substance, and have put very little effort into promoting my existing work, I can't help but ask myself a few questions, namely:

-Is there anything that I'm really compelled to write about?

-Is my love of idleness (and drink, to be honest) eroding my authorial motivation entirely?

-Why, really, do I even write?

As pessimistic as these questions may sound, expressions as they are of the continual doubt at the core of my being, I do have some tentative answers.

-Yes, kind of;

-no, not entirely, as a considerable break from self-inflicted pressure to write may actually be helping me;

-Because it is my sole means of expression, and despite all failed attempts at writing, I feel the need to (at the very least) console myself with the notion that I have something to say through the written word, even if it is never read by others.

Really, though, I don't actually worry about this matter very much. I suppose it's come to mind recently due to the rather ex post facto realization that my authorial brain is on vacation and hasn't bothered to purchase a return ticket yet.

It looks like the sun has managed to crawl out of bed, take a piss, light a cigarette, and settle in for a day's worth of emitting radiation, so I'm going to go join it.

Remember to purchase Axis Mundi Sum for your friends, enemies, loved ones, and strangers this Christmas, and take it easy.