I haven’t written much lately because I’ve been so sedated and satisfied with the city. Funny, that even satisfaction becomes dissatisfying. I can’t write without a reason to put my pen to the paper. And when my hands and eyes and heart and mind are so preoccupied with what brings me joy, I think to myself I could live on like this and die and never write again. But then I wake up on Sunday morning with blank pages and not even memories of the last couple days. I am dissatisfied and so completes the circle; I pick up my pen and begin to write again.