And here's the hard part-I have nothing to say,

no message I want to deliver. No story to tell, no

dream to convey, no characters I need to limn.

There's only myself, that's all that I know, and

I'm never too certain of that. And by now, after years of

describing myself in any of several disguises, even

I am bored with my self-absorption, and haven't the

will to continue.

I still have the tools, the words and the brushes,

I know how to do the job, but I might as well apply

the paint to myself and crayon my excellent parts,

and see if I can make the heart stone glister while

hiding the sprouting profusion of warts. Put blue

on my heart and the rest crimson red and howl

at the waxing moon, less the lone wolf than a damned

fool dog, a hound self-taught to dance.