Truth be utterly told. I could write for the rest of my days. Nonstop, which it often does seem to feel like whenever I’m not with anyone. When with someone, it’s like I totally forget that I ever even liked to write. Odd. For sure. But, then, any time on my own, which is a fair bit really, and, if necessary I’ll manage to make more, that’s when it starts to go again. As though it just seems to have stylised itself and, what’s more, strengthens itself with each next new piece of… scribbles. It’s scribbles. I’m a scribbler. That’s what I’ve gotta go with. It’s just what it is. It’s.. inbuilt and I am completely engrossed in it. A night out- I’ll drift away on into another poem piece, even if no one will even know it. I can still chat and talk and what-not. And that is precisely where the wind in my sails get gusted again- by happenings. And, sometimes, the happening is so very piercingly begging to be placed inside of a poem piece. It’s tiring too, I mean.. imagine if I didn’t write for… say, a whole month. I remember the woman who told me once that she hadn’t been able to write a thing for… SEVEN YEARS!! Holy shit, that’s what they call writers block, I guess. But, then, I ain’t a writer. So no chance of that particular thing happening, and would I want it to? Dunno. Don’t care either way, really. Seven years. That’s, 🤔… about four thousand poems worth of scribble-time down the drain, in my eyes. I wonder how I might be when I get to have spat out ten-thousand poem pieces. That simply excites the absolute shit outta me. Well, actually… I dunno how I feel about it. I mean, it’s there, and always, but now I get to mind my cousin’s wonderful girls for a few hours. That’ll help too. I guess it’s a little big bit like I’ve created my very own personal theatre show going on before me. And I’m the director/scribbler. And the page is the final breath of creative air 🤷‍♂️ The landing spot