I just can't walk away

There is one fantastic thing about not writing for ages, and we don't count this as writing for good reason. That fantastic thing? If I can find the right mood at the right time, I bleed black. Ink in some way, shape, or form replaces blood, and words come tumbling out instead. It's not always pretty, it's frequently awful, but if some people relieve tension and stress in other ways, this is my outlet, for good [hey, 18,000 and counting!] or bad [this. :P ] and that's just the way it will always be. It also explains why I get a little cuckoo when I'm unable to find the words or the ability to string them together.