Konfusion with a K

I used to be a writer. I used to stay up late clicking over my computer writing stories of anguish. Of teen anger. Of suspicion. Now I fill my time with meaningless assumptions of to-do lists and meetings and self delusional ideas. Where did the writer in me go? He Was froliking through the rainstorm, picking up shards of glass and pieces of memories, weaving them together with the precision of a dancer, of a melody. The sun is setting, the world hibernating. I click clack my blacberry, looking for my long lost friend. Shell you say, I say husk, if even.
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