Some days it’s art, some days it’s just trying to figure out the reason to do the art. To stay alive is usually motivating enough. But to be able to sleep, that’s what gets the words pouring out of me. I stare at closed lips waiting for something other than the clicking of spit. I wish so hard for more more more. But words don’t come. Not even close. And so in the silence I grasp at any man willing to slip me a few sentences to get me through the day. It’s caused by a mixture of so many broken promises. The craving to want to be chosen, so I’ll chose him. I’ll choose him over and over again until I’m nothing but a memory. Or something like that. It does matter. I do see it. I’m not really sure what or how to change, so if the big hand would reach down from the heavens and push me toward the right direction, I’d be grateful for it.