Or, what happens, when I sit down on a
Thursday morning

Words. On a screen. I type them. One. by. One.

What inanities flow forth from my brain when in the morning I type? Gobbledigook of course. Nothing more; grammatical lessons long forgotten be damned. Oops. I just type, then delete, then ty — DELETE.

What’s next to flow from this mind of mine? A tweet? A tumbl? An iPhone-framed image? Or something more? Really this is just nonsensical. All of it. I have no lingual style to speak of. A writer, I am not. Why not try though? Why sit here, bang on the keys a bit, and release something into the world? Is there not enough drivel emanating from others?

I have no answer, but only the words crafted of the letters I type. I’d like to express and to share. The shouts of doubt that this isn’t good; isn’t of value. But who cares? Do I? I do. Should I? Maybe not, but then, isn’t that the point.

I’d like to spit and coax something significant. Arbitrary, and maybe nothing behind those words. Here they come, jumping from finger to key to machine, until it.

All. Stops.