It’s not an addiction as such but rather this… innate need to scribble just anything down. Now. Poetry isn’t what it is, of that I am now utterly sure. It’s heavy-as-hell with words – saturated, even – even if also heaving with an automatic and inbuilt sense of style and rhythm which, I’d have to only assume, usually only I can see or know of. I dunno. You’re all in and then, some days you entirely forget what you wrote, or even that you wrote at all! You look back and think: “Shit. That’s… thirty ‘poem-pieces’ this week, that’s almost like way back when I was spitting them out so as to, well, stay upright inside of my head the ball.” Anyhow. I’m one billion percent certain that to read back that far would absolutely leave me in shock at how bad I was. Maybe I still am bad. I mean, boiling it down, and going at it from a commercial sense entirely, I have eff-all followers, and I make literally nothing financially from it. That’s kinda.. cringeworthy really, how bad I might actually be at promoting myself. But I’ll give that particular thing time. I understand that you cannot live off compliments but, at the same time, of course I come at this from a completely different angle. Money can wait. Proper organising of the use for the scribbles can wait. But I suppose this is kinda exactly what they meant when they said health is wealth, maybe? Give me a million euro and I’ll shovel it into next years Halloween bonfire if it meant I couldn’t scribble anymore, etc 💃 But, to be perfectly honest and straight here, I’m gonna have to bide my sweet time and end up taking both the million and the other stuff 😉 Hell yeah, I wanna live well and travel with Ross 💓