Like I said I live in my head. I keep up there among other things a pen that is constantly scribbling on the walls of endless halls and numberless rooms.Only a micro fraction of these heiroglyphs actually make it through the gates of the eyes to my hand on this physical plane. These days it feels as though I'm walking through a dark valley with nowhere to lay my head. The road is rocky and the night is pitch black.I scribble blindly in my restless pace. My hand is spastic as I stumble over pot holes to make my way.I cradle my pen and paper unable to read the results.One boot in front of another I'm praying for the dawn when the eastern star will come. Why do I bother to draw and write? These things will come to nothing still it's all I know to do. The longer I trod here on this mud ball the less sense it makes to me. I know who I am and where I'm headed but that's about it.