The drive to write fiction has extinguished in my blood. In addition, I have not a morsel of creativity to even initiate another blog layout or digital art that, in the remaining decades of my futile life, I shall serve purposeless, devoid of the afflatus that had kept me going, living, breathing. I am but a clump of organized, evolved biological mass of cells; produced by a zygote fertilized by a spermatozoon, and developed through other means of energy--food, water, sunlight, oxygen. Yet beyond this clump of despicable work of nature that is I, I have a brain that distinguishes myself apart from all types of biological makeup, including you bored little bloghopper and those other entities who resemble another unified clump of biological matter.

I deserve a hanging: my neck wrought in a looped rope suspended from the ceiling, my face purple, my body limp and lifeless, my apartment an eerie abode of darkness, despair, misery, death. I do not contemplate on suicide, for every single day that I consume the air and exhale my poisonous breath, I hope that today might just be the day that I shall breathe freely without contaminating others.

My past has become an abysmal void of nothingness. I don't know who I have been. Don't know my past, the events that molded me, the ideas that honed my beliefs, the people that have unknowingly become a part of my life. I don't know any of them. All that remains are a vague familiarity, like dream failed to be recalled, and the nefandous feelings and emotions all but serve as a vestige of a forgotten mystery.

Who am I? My mind fails to encapsulate my entirety into a single paragraph, had there been any paragraph to write at all.

I shall refrain from writing entries woebegone as this. Hence I shall bounce.

Word did you say?

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