Since what I pass through, while hiking my eyebrows, is neither a nuisance nor a gaff, I am obliged to disclose it as a transparency to dig the scrap like a story of how one paid his girlfriend to have Sex with his Grand Dad.
Every mortal can be sick and, as an artist, I’m no exception. If you hardly imagine why I write much sometimes than other times, you rarely think of what can make a writer a human being with a leg to kick a bucket, squirm, rest or die.
Two dozens of paragraphs are not okay since writing better articles doesn’t happen everyday. So at most times I try this and that without flow or option than to beat my forehead and be careful that this nadir can make me lose sheer interest except if I am in a conventional writing, say like professional writers, to get things done even without inspiration.
When my heart stuffs me to wait-to-get-well-to-write attitude, I deflect.