First, I was too busy packing and moving to sit down and write. Now, I just don't really feel like it. Most of my characters and stories are borne from the dark and dirty alley ways tunneling through my imagination and their homes are being destroyed as we speak. The street-sweeper of happiness is washing the dark down the storm drains and that infernal ball of fire in the sky is burning their eyes. It is difficult to write a passage about a monster pulling a man's esophagus out through his stomach when your brain is petting puppies. I'm sure the Lenny between my ears will pet too hard and some darkness will come back, but for right now, peace is a stumbling block.