I've been so inarticulate lately, and it's not as if I've lost the conviction behind my ideas. It's simply an inability to express myself -- mostly on the page. I want so badly to write you a poem, but everytime I sit down this blinking cursor stares at me and my mind goes blank as the page before me.

Maybe I've forgotten the old words, the miles of verse in my head.

I don't feel lost or forgotten. I don't feel changed at all. Actually I'm quite comfortable here, in this place that has no definition and therefore no boundaries. The lack of passion is made up for in an abundance of mediocrity. The tirade of questions have nearly ceased, replaced by apathy.

The world waits. . .