four days and counting. writer's block. can't seem to shake it. the ideas are there but not the words. fumbling for just the right thing to say. feeble efforts are my only resort at this point. giving it a shot at this late hour. nothing else to lose. hopefully it's like riding a bike. when i was six or so, a cousin tried to teach me to swim. ended up throwing me in the water. didn't have the desired effect though. never quite forgave him for that episode. hopefully this will be different. can't help but feel self-conscious at this stage. writing for the sake of writing. no rhyme, no reason. stream of consciousness ain't my thing. editing comes second nature to me. this runs counter to my instincts. the night's inspiration becomes the morning's regret. better to shield my eyes from the light of day. every so often, something i hear or see reminds me of fifteen. of thornhill. of the mall. the walk home. the tunnel. the graffiti. the echoes.
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