Tribulus Terrestris

Your blost returns, comrades, driven on by the return of the Yard, the undying, unquenchable compulsion to write, and the worried words of frustrated friends and loved ones. I barely have time to think, dear reader, let alone take pen in hand. Unperturbed, my knuckles twitch with anxious anticipation. The burdens of time hang over me like a heavy head. For someone who struggles to find time in which to masturbate (properly), I'm surprised at my lack of sexual, testosteronic vigour. Where is it all directed? All activity spurns the keyboard, preferring the sustenance of food and sleep. Hours seep into days, days into weeks. Afar are the days of regular updates and concentric discussion. An apology would be untrue. I return at last.