See here how everything leads up to this day

I have very little to say.  Not sure why I'm doing this again.  Writing is life for some and merely death for many.  When I sit to write I feel somehow concussed.  Like I've beaten and shaken all of the written words from my head.  Skill has left me.  Syllables flash across my mind's eye.  I smash them together and come across as inhuman - blator incogrant fartomic slaynick - like a portrait puzzle pieced together without a thought to take time and make sense.  Coo me to sleep.  I need sleep.  I got a warm heart and cold cold fingers.  Blow me away.