"I once thought that time
Accentuates despair
But now I don't actually care"

I spoke of the separation of concerns a while ago. This appears to be still in effect, with the consequence that I no longer find the desperate urge to put to paper feelings that would inspire any student of literature or psychology. To be sure, I'm frequently filled with the sorts of grim existential doubts that have made up the vast body of this outpost; but their nature seems frustratingly quotidian, and patently uninspiring as far as writing goes. As far as trade-ins go, it's a little early to tell whether this one is acceptable. On the one hand, I do like the normalcy of my new turmoil. But I can't say I don't sometimes miss drawing a bucket from a deep well of sorrow. It's just that these days, I find I'm just not thirsty anymore.