i don't know which is worse: vomiting out whatever seems to come up the fastest, or, not vomiting at all.

and by vomiting, i'm meaning: writing, relating, revealing, and sharing.

time is more popular than ever these days; and i, myself, am barely able to allocate ten minuetes for myself, let alone reflect on anything past the peripheral of the obsolete. like right now, it's 4:10am. i've worked 15hours. i'm beat.

perhaps soon, i'll find the time to ruminate and marinate in the days events; in the changing seasons; in my, dare i admit above a whisper of vulnerability, inamorato; in the music blasting at my chest, and the masterpiece of all that which it accompanies and embodies.

until then, i have my vices in place: a bottle of spanish red wine, a box of chocolates, and richard ashcrofts voice-that right there isn't a bad place to start and end.