Oh Mondseer the Muck Cob Brie Muenster Saga

Oh Mondseer: the muck cob brie muenster saga..., which I can prov-olone huck curd (within Trump con feta ration) – as cheesy poem! Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably burst asunder at the most inconvenient opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy, taking a shower, or using the bathroom. Accursed ambition becoming a prolific wordsmith (case in point Stephen King) Woolworth riding, oddly lumbering lackadaisical shoehorning out this being from a self made gully. The jury yet to decree if attempting to extricate muss elf from tangled web of decades old setbacks via literary output successful. Every morning, noon and night, this chap blunders, flounders, (like a phish out of water), yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured person along the boulevard of broken dreams. Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier, a previous saunter found me surmounting The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire telephone contact with Cell phone quickens pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination, motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds (The Dark Half), doomsday facet deftly jackknifing lust. Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience Joyland. IT (creative juices within) spur meeting Rose Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things. Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim. Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices. Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted LIX. They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically. Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin Aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious ill luck. Hell in a handbasket plight usually generates nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Old Virginny. Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result (The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe) sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks. Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively) along vista. The roads have no name. They command stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested To transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias Mr. Mercedes carefully just in case The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical po' wet tick feet took me where they would into the Shining and happy place called Willoughby located within the outer limits of the twilight zone.