I've been going through some writers block.  I have a few pieces that I'm working on but I can't seem to finish either of them the way I want to.  I suppose it's a matter of patients and letting the words fall into place as they should.  Words have a life of their own.  They live, they breath; we exist in a symbiotic relationship; a courtship of mixed drinks and mixed emotions, dancing to the existential beat of existence.  A true artist wears his heart on his sleeve and keeps his ear to the ground.