Post the first
The canvas is empty. I write this post four moons after turning three and thirty. I am a man, grown. The leaves are white. The wood turns blacker, and the wood cutter shows little mercy so be it. I was to be resolute asa tree, how now? Must I grieve my roots for serving their purpose and serving it well. Would I had teeth, the better to gnaw at my anchors, undoing me wholly? I must now stand so, as to become ubiquitous with what surrounds me and I surround myself with. The pact is a priori consciousness, and so shall I abide by it. Now that the ilk of the fairer sex has found its attention meandering, tell fellow men, should I become the jester? Games are for children, and yet, children grown from outside but stunted within can only find expression in something they have outgrown seemingly. Robustly, stories erupt from the fount of wisdom and wit, and find their selves flowing through lightening entrapped in remoulded bones of old hammering away at the anvil of the intellige...