Brother, My Cup is Empty
...why. In short it’s pathetic to explain why I don’t feel like writing a new rocket stove post when much better writers easily accessed the muses under far more difficult circumstances. As Cave puts it, John Wilmot penned his poetry Riddled with the pox Nabokov wrote on index cards At a lectern, in his socks St. John of the Cross did his best stuff Imprisoned in a box And Johnny Thunders was half alive When he wrote Chinese Rocks Our excuses? A kidn...