it has occurd to me that whenever i seek to create, that which may be construed as unique prose, that it refuses to manifest itself in my mind as soon as i pick up my instrument of creation. the mind turns inward and thoughts no longer flow. in response, i stare at blank pages until something causes me to stand and leave. a bowel movement perhaps? Going with this thought now, allow me to entertain one with the notion of what would follow. frustrated, i would try to relieve both the inevitable build up of urine and emotions into one stream into the bowl. when finished, right as i would flush the porcelain beast, a single stream of consousness would touch my forefront. i wont even bother washing my hands but instead rush to empty pages. and as soon as the instrument of creation is touched, all is lost. at which point i begin staring at blank pages until my body tells me to move again.