theguywhowritesstuff

I don't know who - if anybody - still visits this neglected corner of dA. But I've gone through and purged the crap. This profile originated as a space to upload all my poetry               - regardless of quality -                                                     under a very thin pseudonym. Then I became attached. Then I became distracted. Now I am writing again -                      and the shite must go. So my gallery reserved for crap is gone           (as are the ones which slipped through the cracks). Poems of sub-quality (but not trash-worthy) are now in the 'scrapbook'. I will be uploading a newer, longer piece o

"They are all of one mind, their hearts are set upon song and their spirit is free from care. He is happy whom the Muses love. For though a man has sorrow and grief in his soul, yet when the servant of the Muses sings, at once he forgets his dark thoughts and remembers not his troubles. Such is the holy gift of the Muses to men." - Hesiod My muse and I reached reason. I gladly ate her fruit, giving nothing in return. She softly made known: affections aren't freely laid. one must watch, listen, read, examine. Only then will she sweetly whisper, Aye; then we shall love once more. Godspeed, -theodoric

I discovered something today: There aren't any names with the meaning 'Promiscuous'. I was trying to find a name for my muse - She dissapears for weeks on end. I suspect she's seeing someone else. My Muse is a fickle creature. -- Thus - maybe I should listen to Mr Gide: "Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better." - André Gide Godspeed, -Theodoric.