source, well, spring. dried up and gone. am i tempting fate by thinking, by teasing, by tickling at the thoughts, wondering, questioning, poking and prodding, trying to get a rise, trying to get something to come out, something to draw forth, blood, guts, gore, tears and pain, agony in defeat, and nothing comes. when it does, and it will, i'll have more to write about, but less to smile, and times to wish for, like these, when life is better, and breathing is easy. tortured souls always make better writers, except for comedians, or comediennes, si en francais, mais, i digress. life starts blending, smooth curves of living, without peaks and valleys of emotional distress, without cliffs and canyons, there's a lot more rolling