oy know, i barely posted today. maybe i was kinda wishing my camera died so i wouldn't have pictures with nothing to say. odd to have nothing when there's so much i could say. 
when i used to try to write a poem, i just remembered how it was in the dark janitor's closet i lived in and i had a soul sucking job in a glass tower serving millionaire corporate lawyers and trudging home to face the blank page in despair and get falling drunk sitting clacking away at the blank pages, ripping them out of the roller with a gasp, later doing the same with collage, all night long, but deliriously free of words. those were drunken times, but i still feel the ghost of the white page and a curiously flat rooted shame, when i have something yet nothing to say.  
but tomorrow i won't be hung over like i was so many days, so many scuttled pages crumpled and tossed away, and i may find spontaneous words and pictures converge without even trying.