As the sun comes in through the window, I work on a few sentences to conjure something of merit. As I go ahead and open the door to the other side, I pass her a handful of literary lube as she tries so hard to tickle herself into action. If it doesn’t work, she’ll spend the rest of the day sulking. She’ll scowl at me as if it’s all my fault when in fact it’s her fault and no one else’s. She’s got a sharp mind and a passionate soul, but fuck me does she make a mountain out of a molehill. You got something to say? Then say it. You feel dead inside? Then stab wide open that chest and smear your guts in the faces of all those who never shared your faith. You want to be beautiful? You want to taste God? Then break yourself and make yourself at every opportunity never forgetting to smile before your head hits the pillow. The Myth of Sisyphus. The labyrinth. The maze of the mundane. You walk the line and take what gets thrown at you. You write from the hip and shoot your soul into the heart of every fucker still breathing. You keep the beat, and you do it again and again until it feels right. If you turn away, then you’re just a pussy, and not the type men lose their mind to. If you bow down and live your life in the image of another, then you’re not the kind of soul I want to be around. No, you’re the kind that waves a flag, and honey, that’s not what we do. It’s just not how we roll.