The Spider and the Fly

I'm back again. Was I ever gone? I've come back to graze upon your waters, gaze into your eyes and see what? Myself, perhaps.

I would like to think that I've grown up, that all of these signs are pointing toward a positive future, but there's just one problem. Oh so tiny and quite frail, my writing is dismal at best. I'd like to think that I am deep, one who must be read. The truth is my thinly veiled writing is not worth the time it takes to puzzle it out.

Does this deter me?
Possibly.

Will I stop altogether?
Probably not.

There is this thing inside me. This thing with Mr. Foutch. I know him, and I desire him like the serpent slithering through the Garden. I want his story to fill my head, to cloud my thoughts with a lust for him. I need all of him within me so that I can spill him out onto the page. This sounds mad. Maybe it is. Maybe Foutch is the name of the madness within me at the moment. I don't think I'll ever get relief from this. I'm out now. I'll return again to tell you that I have abandoned him, that have sunken back into my depression. Fare the well until then.