piled up, hidden behind damns, and dams, and the thoughts and questions and musings, it gathers, growing, swelling, no ice providing respite, no elevation, none of that, just the swirl, the amalgamation, a thought arises from the maelstrom, from the depths of the unconcious, slips briefly across the minds eye, in clear view, in clarity, and then drops away, back into the mix, and such an idea stolen, lifted, from other authors who make much too much money to buy castles and countries, but still, expression, paper, or words and typing, output no longer prodigious, a trinkling, a sprinkling, a tidbit here and there. writing across the board suffers, when it strikes any deeper than a newscast, when it's nothing but local coverage, no news magazines, no exposes, no specials, then it seems to be more of routine, and routes to run from playbooks well established. instead, i'll try and force it, all the words i should have written, and instead, write now, right now.