feeding the tree, the muse, those mystical beasts of yore, of myth, that feed on turmoil, and anguish, and heartbreak, or is it more like the engines of engineers dreams, of pixar imaginations, where energy is transformed from children's deepest darkest fears, their scare captured in screams, to power to light monsters' lights and cars and elevators and sushi restaurants. or simply the material for screenwriters and novelists, for playwrights and admen, something new or old to just share with others, to get paid for. it is the muse that it feeds, it is everything i try to recapture, it is feeling, and emotion, and energy, it is energy, it is power and strength, a driving force for motion, for movement, to keep from standing still. for all it's curse, it's a blessing.