Why? Why can I not seem to write anything? What is it about everything that prevents me from seeing the world? Only in retrospect, only in retrospect. Only in retrospect can I see what life really is about, and how beautiful both my past and my future are. Hm, it seems I fail at everything I try. Oh well, life is simply a short stint in order for God to decide what to do with all of us anyway. But if it is, then why do we all have a purpose? What are we all striving for if not for fulfillment of this purpose? Is the purpose visible to many? To any? We all must have a purpose. And there must be a Heaven, because if there is not, that would mean I would never see my mother again, and if that were true… well, let us not dwell upon that. And if there is a Heaven, there is most certainly a Hell, for I know murderers and pedifiles and animal abusers are not seated alongside my mother at the dinner table each night. Damn it I can never write when I get like this. Damn Ficlet Nirvana. What a joke. 12345.