To continue

He couldn’t write to save his life, evidenced ad nauseam; nor would he want to burden words with such an execrable chore

It wasn’t writer’s block, no – not that he thinks he deserves the moniker – it’s rather akin to a nietzsche niche

There isn’t much that occupies him, though he’d come to welcome that particular distraction from his quotidian routine

Often, however, as with most of his endeavours, the struggle is finding a reason to continue, other than “for something to do”

It’s clear that his style – if, in fact, he can be said to have one – is never going to win him favour, or a place at the writer’s table

His writing is now little more than a masterclass in insipid repetition, a neverending exercise in ever rending prose…

art: Listen by Jeanne Bessette