That said, time, for humans, only exists in finite stretches. Never and always have a different meaning for the living than it does for the grammarian. I don't want to say I will never finish these stories I started. The pain, for me, is that they are finished in my head. I know the plots, the arcs, the words, but I'm just not going to write them. At least for now. That's the pain. The pathetic thing is, and is, is that I don't just let the blog go. And, in addition, I don't know what my problem is.
I've written this next paragraph many times. I deleted them all. Everything I write sounds fake even if it the truth as I see it. Still seems fake. This seems somehow worse, but it is as honest as I can make it.
Meanwhile, I have put myself to work in a more direct fashion in my biological life. There is a lot to learn in the world. There is always something else to learn. So I guess I'll do that for now. For you few, you precious few, that liked my work, my advice is to spend all your waking time re-reading it and sending me money.