I'll be RIP-eing. Thanks for calling.

I believe that I must die. It is important to do that now. Not as something that occurs as an error of cosmic judgment. More like the fulcrum of the destiny of the glistening, unshed tear that will drop from hooded eyes.

There is too much going on. There is too little sleep. There is too little time for myself. There is too little of myself to make time for. It is not enough to change jobs, and constantly look at tree-trunks and poisonous flowers, and evil sunsets to find a story. It is not enough. It is not even close to being enough.

What would be enough to get started would be to first end it all. The words, the verbage, the analogies, the descriptions, the twitterings, the hollowness, the constant spiralling ascendancy to decline.

Therefore, I will not write for a long time. I will not write until I am garblingly new and I'm freakishly happy. I shall be my own Othello, and weep in conceited silence over my plight. I shall bleed ever so slowly to get the stinky muddy mundaneness off my blood. I shall thwart memory and be smudged with bubbling amnesia. There will be misery in the ten course meal, there will be the ten course meal as the staple diet.

Then I shall come back to a timewhere 'poetess' was still a word. Then my mind will have flowered in quiet sunshine that mangroves are so possessive of. My brain will pique with ideas and send out stories into the world - stories that will be like lemon pickle and steamed kheema with peppercorn.

But now, I believe that I must die. And I must do as I believe.