Months of Inertia

Three months without composing a single, solitary verse. My mind boiling like never before. As an excuse, the other jobs and the stupid imperative of necessity. On more than one occasion, the feeling of a near explosion, the call of the mind to record in art the powerful and terrible judgment, the cry in verse form. And, alas, the silence, the rational inaction to let the impulse slow down. Indeed, it does slow down—and fate has another chance. In vain, however, for it will surely return…