Filling up seven days of straight prose submissions seems like a fun thing to do, when facing down my atrophied writing abilities yet again. Ideas flow, but words don't, and it's not so simple as to find solace in the world of the classic American prole and then return with a fresh-and-ready mentality. The rule of grow or die applies, so I cling desperately to my coffee and epileptic guitar riffs and hope that somewhere along the way these creative ferns will find enough earth, light and air to compete with all the offending bamboo in the world.

I've been thinking about starting a blog, because Kafka told me I need to have something to say. And if I start talking frantically, a valid point might slip out between my half-note hums and my quarter-note rests.