I don't know what happened to me. I don't have much joy or drive anymore, though I feel as if I have improved as a writer. Yet, there is a sense of unbearable emptiness looking at at a blank page, at a sentence incomplete. The fire, the ability to fill the pages and weave the words, has been snuffed out. Not completely, but so much of it. I loathe it.

As it stands, all of these things here could use a huge overhaul, but I don't have the energy to do so. I'd like to pick up writing again, someday though. I apologize to the people that had hoped. Until then, and after, I leave all this up as a monument to my suck.