The low-hanging fruit of a year turned anew: shame and embarrassment is ripe for the picking. Not sure what is worse: the failing to write, or reading of words from other hearts awritten. Perusing your words was once a joy, as was the cold chiseling of words as art. But now, this day as every day I find nothing; no thing that will inspire and bring those moments back to life. My dawn is passed, and I meander towards the tree-line -- and the twilight beckoning
