Wordless, lost in time and space, too many people out and about…no time to digest, to digress, to repress, to decide if he is happy or depressed. This homeless man, this vagabond, this occasional writer of words, this man, whom everyone else would like to see write their story, has gone dry, he has run out of stories of his own. Promises himself that he will get down to it. He will write when all is finally quiet, when he can find the time, when he has THE story to tell. But all he is doing is pushing it all aside, procrastinating, or maybe he truly has nothing left to say. No one’s fault but his own, he has failed himself, his art..he has yet to learn discipline, how to practice his craft, he is an amateur, he simply dabbles. He is lazy.
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