I've quit being a writer 2 times a month during the 7 years I've been one. Fortunately, it's the only form of unemployment that still pays.
Fleeting, bleating sheets, sheaths of worn and torn youth-age
return, darling, your presence is more than the dark, the whispering monsters of your crazed, manic mind. it's more than anxiety-stricken, ticking, blinking thoughts.
it's more than clenched fists, nursing beads of sweat, rolling dreaded paths along the tram line of [cliche] broken hearts.
a writer two times quit, is seven times as fit.
writing is wearing and tearing and blaring and caring. caring, is it?
Where ya been?
It's natural state is what we make. We are nature.