The Hotness

would that I could write on command, like so many wannabe starlets can call forth a deluge of tears on a whim for the delight of the ad and the cinematographer. alas. I have held back my words and thoughts and poorly strung together phrases for long enough, however, so I now feel compelled to hammer out some few simple words here on this rickety keyboard, the one with the “a” softly disappearing into the wilderness. yet and still, though, I have nothing of worth nor interest to say. shame. It’s not as though nothing has happened in my life — looking back, the tumult of the past few weeks has overwhelmed me. it’s just that I have no way of cribbing all those experiences, the life and meat and blood of the world, into something palatable for the devouring. something all of you out there can digest with ease and alacrity. alas. give me time, though. I am working on it. furiously.

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