Here I sit smoking my pipe, phlegm collecting in my throat, phantom squeeze low down my side where my appendix should be with the rest of my intestines, slimy wet meat discharged thanks to surgical meddling. Late at night drumming words on a laptop not knowing where to head, idle and sidle with long pauses, looking for something to prick the roof of my intellect and pimp celestial intervention but beside the vague shadowy outlines of a twin-towered cathedral in a brown and tarred anonymous city pitched to a latrine yellow sky with undertones of severed emotions rumbling underneath its forsaken mask... not a thing. Now even the visions no longer persist, the words roll out deliberately, precise, construed to run after the liberating ending for fear that the task will be huge and similar to an epos. Failed writer, grounded in the sauna of his imaginations, lazy, proud wishes that looks for manicure, yet the arm is heavy and lost the aptitude to device the scissors.