It occurred to me today what's buggin' me, why my writing feels so awful, and why in general I'm a negative blot on the pages of life lately.

You see, it's this thing called....well, whatever the word is for this. The rusty tobacco tin in my chest has come open, and apparently I'm still attatched to all the people I thought I cut myself loose from. "The people I cut myself loose from." God knows how selfish I must be, to cut myself off from the world in an attempt to escape the humanity all around me...Someone wrote something about men and islands not being equivalent...

This tobacco tin in my chest, when it whooshed open, it let out the strangest smell...it was almost rotten sweet, and dusty at the same time. It occurred to me that this is the smell of old roses. Deep and dark, ugly and beautiful all at once. I think I'm tired of old and musty emotions, worn out and cliche. I want daisies, not roses. A stream, not the ocean.

So now my Sci-Fi roots come in, and I tell you, dear reader, that I am about to go where I have never gone before....wherever that is. Not sure if it's a frontier for the rest of the world, but maybe I'll be refreshed with something out of the ordinary. Wish me luck.