I've got 99 poems but the next ain't one. And for some reason or another I find it particularly important what that next poem becomes; my one-hundredth, signaling a landmark in this most engrossing hobby of mine. I've had the title "Fantasia, My Darling" stuck in my head for a while now, and with a title comes an implied concept; specific enough to inspire, vague enough to be anything. I could write it about my hobby of writing poetry on deviantART, being subtle enough to possibly mean something more in the right context. It's hard to tell with all that's been on my mind lately.

According to an issue of Mental Floss (whom I'd trust to tell the secrets of the cosmos) being tired makes you more creative. Contemplating this, I noticed a general correlation between unhealthiness and creativity (take the drug addiction of rock stars, for example); I also remembered my own unhealthy habits of sleep deprivation and odd eating habits, and how I sought to change them. Thus, I eliminated my bedtime and did only what felt comfortable as far as what I ate was concerned (not throwing caution to the wind, of course). I thought myself mad at first, but then I wrote Another World, perhaps my all-time best poem, with minimal effort.

And so, here I am, starving hysterical tired, patiently observant toward my condition..