It is time. It is time to spew it. To vomit it out. To spring it forth. To share it. Or not. To put it out there. To have it wither and die. To grow stale. To blossom. To run rampant. I don’t care which. Well, that’s a lie. I do. But not as much as before. So, it is time to be. And to actually do.  This may be the end of my words, resting here on a screen. But it is the beginning of me. It is time. Fina-fucking-lly.