Not enjoying my current flow of thoughts…there arent any. I wish to write but nothing speaks to be written. My mind is as blank as a winter sky and barren as an abandoned cave. I am usually inspired by words, they own depth that i surface; feelings, they are shared and i spell the connection; thoughts, they are the level of understanding and i exhibit mine; and images, they speak all the above and i translate. Unfortunately at the moment niether inspiratioins are striking me, so i am sitting with an aborted short story and trying to complete its hollow body. The begining and end has already been typed, its what occurs between that is most difficult to figure out.