Like Kermit, freshly penetrated by a new puppeteer, I'm here trying to find my voice after a period of silence. Mine has never been provided on my behalf, and at my last check - I haven't died in any real sense since I last put fingers to keyboard. It's probably worth reassuring you at this point that there isn't anyone elbow deep in any of my orifices facilitating this action.

I take it back, this is nothing like Steve Whitmire becoming Kermit.

Its been almost 11 years, since I 'wrote' anything more than a paragraph, the occasional clandestine verse has forced itself out of my head, only to be lost to time. A promise that I would not try to be a writer held for all those years. A time that if anything needed to be examined aloud, in a space far from the tension it existed in, the quiet murmurings of a reality screamed out of existence. 

 It's my aim to get back into words and so with discipline and this, an empty space, a void to scream into, a receptacle for the mundane maelstrom that spirals between the screen and the headspace I used to be able to switch on and off, where my thoughts were colours and my heart not so much on my sleeve as it was handed quietly to the reader still, warm and moist.