I don't know what to write. I could feel it coming for months, like a deep green plastic bin on wheels trembeling at the sight of the rusted truck slowley barreling towards it, knowing there is no way to escape it. Going and stoping and going and stoping and going before stopping and dumping it's contents into a rusted crate where it is hidden from the rest of the world. My only good ideas lost, stolen, missing, kidnapped. Now they'll never be bleached and picked apart by the harsh artifical lights attatched to the school ceiling. They will never electrify through my head. They will never flow through my veins and out my fingers. They will never meet my pen and never become ink. They will never feel paper or float in the air. Maybe they where doomed to live in that rusted truck. Maybe they where doomed form the start. But what if they wheren't? What if my ideas where supposed to boom in the winter air in place of the dead trees and flowers and plants, giving life to things that aren't. I guess I'll never find out and I guess they will live in the graveyard of writers block till they eventually wither away. R.I.P. to my ideas.