It feels like poets are the only ones allowed to tell the truth--even if a lot of the time they're embellishing. I write prose, but I'm having such a hard time stepping away from myself these days that the truth is all that'll come out--though, again, a bit embellished. I've considered posting some of my freewrites as journal entries, just because of how personal they are--but I haven't, for the same reason.

Freewrites are mostly what I do these days. They're short, they get the point across, and I can actually finish them. I've given up on long works and am just trying to start small at the moment.

My drawing style has changed. I haven't really gotten around to putting anything up as it's all sight drawings, but if I do they will most likely be in the Scraps section.

Sad what my opinion of my own work has come to.


P.S.
When you really think about it, isn't the tendency of socks to disappear really bizarre?