Nothing Rhymes With Soul-Wrenching Angst Damn. My mood is good, my blood sugar is good, My laundry, for crissake, is good. There is no black pit where my heart should be. How the hell can I write about the required things: Thorns? Lost love? Tragic delusions? Harlequins? Rice pudding? Why, thanks, I'll have some rice pudding. How the hell can I write about the tragic horror and strangeness of the world at large with a picnic spoon in my mouth, I ask? I could rhyme "despise" with "my eyes" right here! (that was clever, wasn't it?) "Madness"! "Sadness"! "Wine and pie!" "What a shame I had to die!" Not the same, really. Hell. I'll try again tomorrow. an anomaly