Torn again. On the one hand, to write as much as possible before the end of the year, so as to leave as many “hooks” to return to in the years to come; to keep mum when I have nothing to say, on the other. Knowing what to expect in the last days of the year does not help at all. Torn still. To write or not to write… This is the question most of my writing revolves around, but it becomes accentuated close to the edges of time. Forever torn, I write as little as I can whenever I cannot but write. To which these words will bear witness.

Addendum (July 7, 2017)

By now, the answer to this question is obvious enough. Even more, not to write is the only answer imaginable at this stage of my life. In retrospect, the very question strikes me as hopelessly outdated. Nay, antediluvian. It is enough for me to look at the date, too. Year sixteen before liberation, that is. Or, to make it a tad more terse, Year Sixteen B.L. Ouch!