Really. I'm not dead yet. I just look like it.

In short I'm writing like an infinite number of monkeys. Well, not quite infinite, more like a small cadre. Still, in an infinite universe there should be enough time to start making sense.

I've also rediscovered the joys of playing guitar. Loudly. With distortion. The one possession I've managed to hold on to (read, not hock) all these my custom built start with Floyd Rose trem and a disturbingly sweet humbucker. It plays as sweet as ever, which is nice considering the abuse I've put it through over the last fifteen years.

Fifteen? Make that sixteen It was my birthday on new year's day. Another tick towards midnight on the life clock.

If that doesn't inspire me to get a move on with writing, nothing will.