Blogging again into a black hole. Wish I had some feedback, some interest, feel like Van Gogh, maybe. Solitary, isolated, misunderstood, yes. Bored beyond, don't want to play games of alliteration, do want to play games though, dull the senses, dull  dull dull. Reading other people's work is depressing. What is the missing link? 

It'd be simpler to make fantastic music. Some bebop, or how about bluegrass twang twang twingee. Friends are encouraging, despite my pretense. I pretend too, hope they can forgive or don't care, well, I don't care otherwise it wouldn't happen anyway. 

I haven't written in a story in some time. I should give it a shot.

Here goes:

Man walks to work, hates work, goes home, paints, is frustrated, is stunted, is pathetic. Man meets external influence, secretly prays for salvation. External influence pushes man into a winding road of uncomfortable experiences, man is outside of comfort bubble, man is growing, man is a giant, man dies happily ever after. 

The end.