it has been far too long since i was inspired.
the vim of my word wanes in the wake of this interlude entre amours—i almost abhor the waiting.
which is why i must thrust my self forward again, toward the light at the end of the tunnel, in the name of the vain task of finding love to fill the hole bored by loneliness. oh, if only the emptiness was so easily dissolved by this resolve alone.
for i know (sigh) love cannot be made on my own; i cannot lust after myself, i am not dorian gray; and i dare say, or rather admit, that my wit has always been best motivated by the muse.
the art of love
l.m