Woe! i have succumbed once more the horrible fucking parasite of writer's block. time was i could sit down and think up something to write about, however mundane. now; nothing.

even my poems which were once so full of wonder and sparkles (i am not one to presusme that my poems are indeed wonderful or sparkly; i merely obey the voices and write down what they tell me. as a result, i don't, in fact, really write the poems but just translate them from the latin narrative in my head and post them on a website called deviantart. ever heard of it? me neither) are now assuming an air of hopeless ambiguity that i no longer have any idea what they are about.

some people would say that it's a good thing, and it leaves room for interpretation. but i am the CREATOR goddammit. i of all people should know what they're about. but i don't have a fucking clue anymore.

i think i may need to start reading more obscure books in the hope of shocking my imagination into gear and churning out some fucked up monstrosity i can be proud off.

so, i am now on the prowl for some devilish little pieces of vapour that come from the darkest places of a person's soul in the hope of finding something worthwhile to write about. or anything at all for that matter.

this is actually probably the longest thing i have written in months, and it was easy because i am only telling the truth. well mostly. see if you can guess what parts are bullshit? the first person to point out the lies will win a prize. (see, i can rhyme without even meaning to, although i must have meant it in some unconcious level because i noticed it. or was it merely coincidence?)

anyway, off i go into the unknown. lovecraft may be a good place to start, because i have actually seen people frothing at the mouth and masturbating furiously when talking about lovecraft to me. cthulhu is calling me.