I am Jack's self-involved malaise...

It has been a while and that should change. Drafts and ideas languish in the graveyard of language. As an unemotional fly on the wall, words and judgment seemed to flow without pause. It is the gift of distance. The privilege of spatial position. Caught up in the maelstrom, however, they cower inside you like bruised animals. At some point one is certain that they will turn on me with a feral intensity, at which point I will be truly without option but to turn them lose. Every post will then be a result of a mini internal revolution.

Additionally, questions from 8 months still hang in the air. What will I relinquish? What will relinquish me? It would be easier to begin at the end. But then... where is the fun in that?