Words, huh, missed by some, but pouring forth, not really, not hidden, not withdrawn, just missing. a long time ago someone, or maybe it was i from a different time and space, but the thought that words themselves stop coming, that the writing stops, and now i remember, a movie, down to you, where the art stops, and mistakenly blamed on a relationship, but that's not the case, and if anything, the lack of musings means good things, at least in my case, for relationships. but muse, 27 scares me. the number. the thought, the future. 27 somehow gets to be bigger than 21, or 25, when such numbers have legal senses, but 27. things slide. it's easy. like these musings. lack of movement. easy to eat. inertia. when goals are reached, when limits surpassed, what then? climbing that mountain, you get to the peak, you stand on top, you survey the lands, and then what? climb back down and do it again? see if you can do it faster, or a more difficult way, or with one hand tied behind your back? or is all appeal gone, the mountain just a molehill, and you go off in search of the next? or is it really time to put away childish things?