I felt compelled to write something, but I'm afraid I have nothing to say. What's left to say that hasn't already been said? Words without heart are just lines on a page. I've poured everything I had into words that meant something only to myself in hopes that another would find meaning in them as well. I have nothing left to give. I packed my sentiments into neat little boxes and shipped them out, but not every box reached its destination and the few that did were damaged upon arrival, their contents dinged and blemished and busted. But that's okay. Perhaps there's a lesson here. Perhaps, in the future, I should keep some of those sentiments for myself. I'll display them proudly on the mantle for visitors to admire, but I'll not give them away. I'll retain them, protect them, keep them dusted and clean. And maybe one day, I'll gift them to someone who shares an appreciation for such things. Or maybe I'll grow tired of looking at them before then and wrap them up and store them away until I start to miss their colors. Regardless of which way it goes, it'll beat mailing them out. Stamps have gotten too damned expensive anyway.

*Cover art by Edward Honaker