If I weren't writing this blog, and this post ... I could be writing a poem. But I always get stuck doing things I don't want to do.
Maybe that's the story of everyone's life. Even the billionaires probably have some kind of trouble.
Yeah, yeah.
I still only have nine poems, man. I might have twenty by Christmas, instead of thirty. It all depends ... on lots of things.
Obviously, the first volume won't be about Cornwall now. I'm thinking that the second volume will though.
I don't know what will happen in the future.
The first volume is obviously going to be about existential despair. I don't mind. I'm good at it.
I'll mention Owlman land, of course. I've already done so in two poems. Just a little taste until the main event in the second volume. If I ever get that far after all the existential despair.
But ...
I want beaches. I want cliffs. I want to stare at the sea so ooo ooo ooo poetic. Do you understand?
That's what I'm dreaming of. A quiet life ... when I'm not in those stadiums reciting my masterpieces or acting them out actually, ha!
Ha, ha! Eh?
Yeah.
Uh.
Listen ...
I've been looking into the stars and galaxies situation a lot more. It's worse than I thought. There are just too many of them.
Strangely, all these objects floating about and around us in our little world for billions of light years as far as the brain can think ... make me even more ambitious.
Strange, eh?
Laters.
