Ffolkes,

Waiting for inspiration doesn’t seem to be working too well this morning; I’ve been sitting here staring at the keyboard with a parade of verifiably insane images passing before me, none of which would translate well onto the page, any of which could conceivably get me arrested on obscenity charges.

I suppose after ten or eleven years the well is getting closer to the bottom; not a whole lot of potable liquid left in the reservoir. Undaunted, I am diving in, with the real hope that as I type, some kind of miracle will occur, and witty profundities will start shooting out as if it were a jackpot in a literary one-armed bandit.

I suppose it is also apropos that what has come to mind isn’t in the same neighborhood as profound; hell, it’s probably a completely different planet. I find myself growing anxious, chewing on my lower lip…