JohnnySwims

Dear Tom,      I don’t think that I can deal with the monotony that I create anymore. Like clockwork a new alarm is set, and each successive high-pitched buzz in the morning is indistinguishable from the gavel that signifies a continuation of my labor. The grip of oppression is asphyxiating, in the hands of a tyranny my existence is spent in vain attempts to create a higher essence. My torture is unrelenting and unpredictable, futile preparations for the future seems to leave me devastatingly unprepared in moments I need them most. The cold that accompanies my winters is bitter and numbing, and I feel the juices of creativity contract inside of me. The apparatuses that lay out my creation seem unaligned with the product I was tasked to produce. Thoughts appear underfoot, meaning unclear and forming fractals upon an otherwise empty slate for expression. My current ink, and my most coveted ink      This perhaps is a bit more foreign to you, a quintessentially...