Idle Hands

I came here to type something. Something of any benefit or use to explain some random event that has happened. Something that would make you laugh or smile in the least.

Perhaps I should remark on the strangely mild weather we've been having, or my month back in school or how I lost one of my socks in today's laundry. But all of a sudden I realize there's nothing behind this screen of yours. Just angry fingers that type idly for a purpose that has yet to be determined.

Words are the playthings of intelligent men and the folly of the average. Indeed, I falter.