I should be sleeping soon, I really should. Unfortunately I'm a night owl and always have been. Doesn't matter when I get up in the morning, nine times out of ten I still have to force myself to head for the sack before dawn. There's always something I want to do whether it's tinkering with my art or if it's reading or writing.

Speaking of those elusive words -I was so happy the other day when I finally managed to write a bit for Memoirs de Mort, but since then the muses have gone quiet again. All I have on my page is a half encounter with an M-16, and that's not even for said novel. I suck at writing with hope. I need a mission, a reason, an incentive. Knowing I might get published once I finish the damn thing just doesn't cut it with me. I want to know that the work is not in vain. Stupid, but that's me.