The Stars and the Cookie Jar

ETA: I have scads of Renaissance music -- bring on the shaums, bring on the citterns, I gotcher branles and gaillards right here -- why is Kit Marlowe so seemingly partial to Florence + the Machine? Inexplicable. 

Now I have four projects going, because that's completely appropriate. Do I ever finish anything? Hahaha, that's funny. 

The insomnia isn't helping. I'm being visited by Spuckles, the Newfie of Dysthymia (ashlyme, he's Shuck's erratic, hormonal cousin. You can tell him because he's got a hankie tucked in his spectral collar) and pecking out maybe fifty words at three in the morning, which is super efficient, let me tell you. 

I suppose the point of this post is that I hate the tug-of-war between mental health, adult life, creative output, and medication. When I'm unbearable as a human being and an asshole to my wife and kid, I can pull pages and pages from my veins like nothing. Whether they are good, useful, valuable pieces of art we could argue until morning; but at least the words come. 

It's a thing.

Also, it's autumn soon. FIVE POUND BAGS OF SALT FOR THE ENTIRE READERSHIP OF THIS ELLJAY.