There is a part of my mind that is always writing something. Unfortunately, it rarely connects with the part of my mind that controls my hands. The amount of unfinished work or work that is never begun nags at me like a senseless woman on the street I cannot quite ignore. Muttering fragments and swearing at no one. My conversations are laced with her grim humor and odd insights but that makes them feel all the more insane and shallow to me. 

I have time to read but no will to write. The opportunity I have now, the time I have now, to produce nothing useful with it feels like a waste.