Renaissance

It has been too long since my fingers have reached into the depths of imagination and I have spilled the contents of my lungs onto the hard, dark asphalt of the cyber-world.

I am peripheral and perhaps I do not mind that. 

What more do I have to say for myself

as I continue this litany of poorly structured prose? 

Really, all it feels like is a page of self-deceipt and narcissism. 

Dull, Dull, Dull. 

As arid as an empty page

Or a man who collects umbrellas and writes dire poetry. 

Those are rainy day affairs, for the winter. 

It is spring now. 

Alas.

Youth is wasted on the young, but also on the old. 

Let me go and seat myself behind books dripping with ink.