I've been lost lately, and as a result my words have run from the paper like hot ink. It refuses to stay put as I and the gods have willed it.

but... Penn says there is no god.

Perhaps that's the reason my notes remain dry, for gods are like fairies and they speak with bells.

My lined mead notebooks remain silent as the dead. No matter. No context. No catharsis.
It's all blurred, like a passing train.

I have dug myself from the box and now my fingernails are filled with blood and ink, and now I sit like a newborn pulled from the peace of a grave. I can no longer cross the hot coals and broken bottles.

My appetite is growing-
And I'm about to overflow.

"I won't be forgotten; I'll never give in."

Yes
No
Do nothing