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I don't know what it was that compelled me to go outside for the first time without an objective in mind. To simply take to the streets and wander and wonder how such an act could be productive. Those first two sentences currently establish me perfectly as being a twat with something special being shoved up his ass.
The urge not to write. To spend the day doing as you please without the burden that is the prodction of words. It's a constant test, a never-ending challenge of your skill—or, as some might say, the proving of your lack of. I've come to wonder the dictomy of being a seen writer.
Happy New Year, B!
Happy new year, B-Man!