I would like to write, but I can not sit down and write. I can sit down but I can not write. I would like to create "content", which is to say I would like to be an "influencer", or a "maker", or a "thought leader" but instead I find myself consuming, endlessly. To wit: Three theses flit through my synapses, in constant rotation, they convolute and argue themselves and gather evidence which disappears at first stroke as if stuffed down a cosmic memory hole. Elusive, it promises to right all wrongs, to set conscious dialectics at ease, to park, for good, my past and identity and present sense of conscience and drive, so as to form a perfect platform for future endeavors, guileless, and pure. The first thesis is about race, the second about religion, the third about love. I will never finish them, so judge me.