It may well be the thing I have been hiding. The thing I have never let the world see. That I keep under a blanket in the far corner of the attic or in the back of the room in the basement where no one ever goes. And it’s not out of spite or revenge or rebelliousness, but rather out of fear. The fear that i may live. Me breath and cast light into shadow. The fear that it many work, that it may be that thing thsyt happens for and because of joy. That’s it, the thing that will never make you any money,. The thing that ever one public ally admires and privately shuns. The thing that happens in sad fits and spurts, like an engine trying to start, like an engine trying to die. I mean fuck, seen fifty New Years. Walked a million miles. Read a shit ton of books, and yet written nothing. Not a godamn thing. Like I said, sad as shit. This will change. Need to write everyday. Except use, breath , write, not a fucking complicated formula. But, yet, one I have never done. Maybe I should choose to start, short fiction, long, poetry, creative non/fiction, non/ fiction. Ai yi yi my head hurts thinking about it. Yet, I will have to pick one. I don’t have the faintest clue how to write a novel. Perhaps I will consult the untraweb