There’s an incredible sense of STOP anytime he writes anything.
Nothing he says is interesting. Every letter that eeks out of his pen is narcissistic. Eeks?
His voice has disappeared. His thoughts are unimportant. His children are important. And keeping their home clean and their bellies fed. Tiny socks are easier to find than ideas.
He doesn’t feel creative. He doesn’t trust his flow. His stream of consciousness drivel don’t make no sense. There’s no danger. It doesn’t follow any order.
He wants to be slimmer and younger. Physically he wants his life back but his brain keeps returning to his children. There isn’t room on the page for everyone.