It's strange. I've felt oddly inspired over the break and yet none of it has translated into the written word. Normally, it's an even split between art and lit but this break has been strangely off balance. I've filled pages upon pages in my sketchbook (probably about 25-30 - that's really a lot for you non-visual artists) and only started one poem that needs more polishing than I think I might care to do. Typically, it would be about ten pages in the sketchbook and seven or eight half finished written peices. Right now the single solitary poem is rough at best. Maybe, when I get it finished, I'll let you read it but, for now, the words of others which have struck me in someway will have to suffice. I'll probably post someone elses work in two or three days. Oh, that reminds me, my drama friends, "Who says "suffice" anyway? Like really." Oh, may your mind rot out of your skull, falling out during your many cold, dark nights alone.