It went like this,
I tried to write today; I tried to write today which is of course a fallacy for putting in effort. Putting thought into a stream of words will necessarily convolute the hidden flowing id with willful thick pollution of the conscious world. It's all a little odd that I can't write as I am, never knowing what it is I want in conscious states. Place all my faith in worlds that run beneath the surface and I know I used to write through means of orchestration. I think the rhythm needs to change a bit. The process was labored and long and far too contrived to make for a truth the way I know now oh one might argue that truth is subjective that that was no less honest in its own way but 'twas less pure not intrinsic, planned, which makes it less than the words that i spill now that can't be blocked or warped or formed into meanings other than the first, you see? i'm sure i'm sure you do or don't and nod your head in some small agreement or perhaps you don't and might admit but those are rare indeed, ah but so it goes,

i can't write today go back to the yesterday i can't write today go back to the yesterday i can't write today go back to the yesterday where words were streaming