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Why does sparsity of creativity come with age?
I have no family, or so I like to tell myself. Perhaps I'd count Victor as *family* if I had to name people. Maybe *Tony*. Certainly *Christopher*. Why are they all from Texas? I left that place wanting to rid myself of anchors and the energy sucking apparati of familiarity. I have gone on to be less than fastidious to any new anchor which happened along. Did lack of *family*, or my perception of *lack of family* hurtle me into a seething world of would be families brandishing fish hooks with nubile wenches impaled on them as bait?
There is not much to say about alcoholism.
Lethargy is a bitch. It is, partially, all of the above, or a symptom of them. It riddles the marrow of my bones. It atrophies my muscles and even more so my muted neurons. Conquering it would be climbing to the peak of the unclimbable. It's better just to skirt the base, eh?
Inspiration exists in every blue sign I see through the window in passing marking another settlement. There is no excuse but the previous point as to *lack of inspiration*.
The creature which wore this skin in 1999 was also a cynical fool. But, as I said, he was not as jaded as he thought he was. When I look back on this in 12 years and write **I am reminded of** in whatever form of journal I might be using then, I need to say to myself that I was much less cynical and jaded in 2011 than I am now.
@flavigula@sonomu.club
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