We are terrorized by the tyranny of the blank page.

It haunts us, as writers, forever more. There is a calling from the night, the hoot of an owl on a desolate tree.

For some, it is an owl. For others, it is an owl. What is it really? Is it really an owl? Or is it an owl?

We shall never know.

There is an owl hooting right now, in the woods.

The woods.

The woods.

The desolate woods.

for this is where i live... But I do not belong here.

I am a traveler, a vagabond spirit enslaved by the philosophy of capitalism.

Am I doomed to travel this earth without lifting my foot of the ground?

I'd rather be jumping out of an airplane.


Hold up a minute, I have more to write. I just can't think of anything witty enough right now.