Any interest I had in publishing or writing has dwindled into almost nothing. Only a tiny shred of inspiration remains.
No inspiration to make or write or publish - inspired only a tiny shred's worth, to what?
To survive.
The signifying of an end of a year is where I plant my flag. Declare the next year as the year when I throw away the useless self-flagellating criticism and constriction... to go hell for leather. Full pelt, fangin' it down the last, lost highway.
