What goes down, must come up-a least in some instances. Creating rather than regurging seems increasingly difficult; the head full of hollow echoes resoundingly. Mental ruts run the mind down paths beaten into muck, arriving at destinations long before the trip begins. Is this just aging, or something more insidious, a harbinger of debasements to come. It's not as if the work world requires conscious thought on a regular basis; one of the hallmarks of my gainful employment is the lack of creativity afforded. Still, better to strive for such, than lapse into the mental withering that beckons from the void. Even slightest works bode better than abandoning effort. Hence, the smell of effort in sweat, rather than the sweet stench of idleness.