03
Oct
16

Wasted


tash can

Sitting here, alone, in my sparsely furnished two-by-four room, scratching my life-affirming sentient mind in feeble attempt to conjure a unique, though provoking line of expression that would merit expansion beyond a simple page; significant to the pulse of the day as to garner the increasingly precious idle moments of perspective readers knowing full-well the level of competition imposed by like-minded, sentient scribes, equally motivated to infuse their seemingly unique style upon the world stage of celebrated authors past, present and future; yet knowing full well the potential of such, rivals the ability to fly unheeded by the force thrust of rocket engines or the simple adjunct of the wind propelling propeller attached to the top of a benny-cap of old; now imposes a sense of dread spawned by the true knowing that achieving such a lofty goal, as levelled within this introductory text, stands increasingly less probability to materialize as to render any further energy of mind transformed into words; wasted.

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