This sentence won't finish itself.

my room is a fucking center for the breeding and development of new diseases, there's so much cluttered crap piling up in every single corner right now it's probably gonna need a surgeon general's warning on the door pretty soon. they say a person's room is a reflection of their personality, so what does this say about me? unfinished business, that's what. A whole camraderie of half-completed projects lie in smoking ruin all across the shattered landscape that is my personal homestead. Every notebook I buy is eventually put into storage with an entire fistful of blank pages taunting my lack of dedication to a completely pointless craft known to the rest of the world as expression. not the cool kind that gets books punched out and novels and awards shoved into dark orifices and fame and tenure. That other crap that doesn't any other shelves but your own and gathers dust like a farmer in some poor country full of ugly people. I write until I get bored which is like until I can write no more but with a lot less potential for revival in the form of an extremely drawn-out miniseries.