As you know, I've got us in the middle of this you can call it a glob or a muddle or a play or a book (no, don't call it a book) or whatever you want to call it, it really doesn't matter because names are only indicators, they're never the thing itself, except perhaps unnameable things because in the end we all come to nothing (and everything), so call it what you will, this muddled middle place where we now stand, and where I'm now thinking (this part you don't know, although recent inactivity suggests it) of stopping without any sort of conclusion at all. But here is what would happen: I would stop, and it would be like a vacation for a while, because as much as I love writing this, it often feels like an assignment with no assignment, and then I'd feel compelled at some point to begin again, because I'm a fish and I have to swim, a bird and I have to fly, a writer and I have to write, even though I'm no longer a writer, so what's the point of stopping, really? So if it seems as though I've stopped, it's probably just a false stop—unless I really love stopping. In which case, it will be a real stop, but I'll probably still start over again. Ah—to start over! Now, there's the thing! There's the jewel in the sand! There's El Dorado! A clean slate! To extract us from this muddle, this middle, this moddle, this maddle, and to place us—oh, to place us at the beginning, the gleaming, glittering, glattering beautiful beginning where all things are possible and all is new and unflawed! Oh, beauty! Oh, promise! Oh, love!