What's to say, anymore? Endless days of lying on my back, not getting much better as the years drag by the weary days on little snail trails. Why haven't I been writing? Depression, anxiety, grief. Used to inactivity, waisting my creativity, my (admittedly humble) talents. Poetry. That's all that's left me. No music; my left arm's pretty much immobile. My poor guitars were stolen from me, as well as most of my electronic play pretties.

But enough with the moaning. I need to write (okay, actually I need to act, make music, get on the flo and dance, but....) and write I shall.

In other words the wake up call was particularly loud.