I fear I have diminished my own essence, my core, in the months of excess preceeding this turning point. The edge that turns uneasily and bites at the insides of my soul when I allow it to go unused has dulled, and I suffer from that lack of teeth. There isn't even a dull hunger for blood, or a thirst for the hunt. This blade in my breast is little better than a domestic butter knife. What do I want to hone this unfinished edge to be? I had a secret dream that I held close between my cupped palms on lonely nights... that vacation this year would be magical. I would be able to casually sit at a bar and casually have a couple of drinks, and allure some young (or not-so-young) gentleman into my company for a sennight... functioning, of course, under the allusion that I could pass as a casual drinker. I'm not certain, but I think the duration of this car repair may have saved me from myself, this year. One good thing to come from all of this: my ent...