Writing with purpose is difficult, especially when no matter how extensive your vocabulary is, a natural instinct to grab thy genitals and furiously shake shifting facial expressions to loud tunes of "fuck you's" grabs hold of your muse.
In times where creativity screams behind a core completely paralyzed, logic and understanding dissipate, ashes broken by gravity's wind, gentle fury, nothing in a whisper. Everything has been done, everything is old to everyone, and all things exist only to expire. There is no point, thus, there is no punctuation, or pride,or glory, or triumph, or hope or victory, no changing of the tide 'nor the guard. There is no art, because all things extraordinary are a distraction from the gray and dull, the predictable, the accepted, the missionary, all demanding respect for their subsequent boredom.
This is a left hand jam, so there is no pressure of anger or junk-grabbing to tunes of "suck my third thumb", as writing itself is task enough, and so is the drive, the smoke or snuff. Fill out the sheet left handed, get the prescription left handed, take the pills left handed, get pulled over left handed and acknowledge the court date...left handed. This is my left hand jam, and it is scientific fact, that lefties have the worst luck.
Hey did you see in the news that.....I'm on drugs. So in conclusion, in matters of the "what have you's" and "what you will's" of the whole thing, life goes on, and naps are an inescapable, inevitable, impermeable, omnipotent, palatable, parabola, hyperbole, rhetoric-filled quagmire of depth and drowse, limp leg, mind roused, numbing portals of deceptive snores and collective mind-boggelry, beyond which there is no alarm, left handed.
