Indeed. There is not much to say. I, like many others before during and since me, am a wannabe writer. Really, I wanna write but I never do. I make up sentences in my head as I’m driving, tossing words back and forth in short rallies until I smugly settle on that snipe-like Flauberian word. I pretend to conjure interesting stories only to realize they are done. They’ve been done and really don’t need doing anymore. No more girls and no more boys; no more kings and queens; no more presidents, no more dictators. No more magical teenagers; no more vampires and wolves; no more elven whimsy and club-footed hobbits. Nein. Let us have stories about smiling flowers. Yes, flowers that smile in fields that smolder. Purple flowers; not yellow.

No more edification and no more african dreams. Wearisome, redundant, leftover thoughts of an ageless mind. I am age bound and it is good. I am aged by years tumbling over each other down experience’s splintered stairs, toothless at the bottom.

No. I don’t write. I pandar for my whorish mind, teasing my glassy audience with thrifty words lifted from my living and my dead beneficiaries. I am age bound 16 years.

But I wanna.

I really really wanna.

Write. Damnit.