Condiments are better than nothing

I’m in a mood where I can’t think of anything to write.  Nothing.  Every thought leads to a dead end.  Every full stop a pause, whereby I document, with accuracy, what I’m saying. A regimented churning of words, and nothing of substance.  To justify it I’ll engage in unjustified special pleading; nobody  has thought as little about what they have written as I have thought as little about what I have written.  I’ll write nothing about nothing!  For no reason!

Then eat a sandwich.  With condiments.

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