I (now) resist the Flow. I feel its shivering beginnings, and I clench where I used to secrete. I tell myself that I'll never be able to achieve that for which I strive. Not with the stammers of speech, nor the ingots of text. Not with printing press blocks, nor with HTML bits. There is no secret to be found. There is no congregation to be saved. It is not art. It is impotence, all the more pathetic for its presumed bombast.
No, it's not Flow I'm in now, it's something else. So what is it? An attempt to reclaim the euphoric modes employed in the past?---out of desperation or even (Could it be? Please, no) hope?
I'm fairly sure it's better than the alternative.
It might be growing up.