Some dude amid a perpetual mid-life crisis that occasionally rants about the philosophical conundrum of conscientious existence.
And other times writes Science Fiction.
Plus the occasional Review.
A Feel Oh, So Fecal (I)
As an aspiring writer, painter, director, musician, game designer, and beautician, I have technically achieved each of these titles by accomplishing each occupations' outcome. I wrote a novel, directed some short films, produced a dozen or so albums, made a functional game once, and I bleached and dyed my own hair. Yet, my total lack of fiscal gain via any of these vocations relegates me to the designated "aspirant" rather the title alone. In my mind, at least. Which leads me to the conclusion: the issue is solely my mindset, and I am, otherwise, successfully an Artist.
In Vitro Summation
A faint rumbling penetrated this ancient darkness, the first vibrations its halls experienced in millennia. The rhythmic whir and tumble of sound grew from wide and distant to a narrow, piercing point, ever sharper and closer. Earth broke free and fell a silent expanse, into an ominous red glow, crumbling upon the smooth stone floor of this covert temple, as a diamond drill bit stopped rotating, sensing air, and a small light source far below.