Oh the things I think of in the mornings. How there's such a fine line between mist and actual fog. Rain and fog is where you fast approach loss for words. But at the same time there have been images and phrases running through my mind that I've been too unmotivated to capture as tangible evidence of being an actual writer. Can I still even call myself that? Sometimes I even think to myself "What's the point, really?" And that depresses me even more. Nothing shared, nothing gained. What the hell is wrong with me?