It's kinda funny. I am now writing two books and have determined that my main problem is I write in my head. The way to phrase things, the way to romance words... It's all up there, in that thing that looks like cold spaghetti. I see a car pass with a woman crying and words spring to mind - a paragraph, a phrase, something someone will say, maybe said. But by the time I find something to write on (usually napkins or postits) it's become just a momentary feeling. I don't remember what it was, only that in that moment, it was wonderful. Irony at it's best, I suppose. My apartment is littered with senseless words that once upon a time meant enough to write it down... post-its on door frames, mirrors, the computer, even my guitar amp. Napkins used for writing instead of wiping have scribbles and tears and are dogeared on the floor and in the drawers. These words I found in my pocket today: "Part of how you live is how you die."