And suddenly, I need something more. Like the artist stood before blank canvas, longing for his muse. The writer’s block hit hard, pen poised frozen, time’s up pal. The lyricist hit a wall, deafened by dour silence that will not bring to bear his words. Stop the bullshit music. Give me something real. What’s more give yourself something you can feel, thus get away from me. It makes me sick you acting slick but you don’t really see that. Even if you do I don’t think it would really ail you. Naturally I must salute you for your ability to run on nothing more than your own self-approval. I myself need something more. Perhaps even something in lieu of that sycophantic validation to fare well henceforth. So raise it. Here’s to something more. Here’s to not looking back at a thing I abhor or, for that matter, adore. It’s time to get going, high time I did my time. Make no mistake, it is your crime. You don’t see that. It is for that reason I’ll happily do your time. It’s not all bad, I get to make it mine. My own and on my own.