When

will writing be a natural extension of my arms into the virtual dimension and will it feel like parts of my brain extend like antennaes into the screen or will it feel like draining my soul of the obscene humours that lurk in the blood like they though in the 18th century? I seek adve3nture please, don't tease me with idle thoughts been censured and don't mention a venture without the intention of going through with it. I grew with it but then I lapsed past certainty, it's a word to me in an alley whispered into an ear, that instills the fear of the unknown and I know that all that follows is shown to be a daliance unless I can find a phone booth and the Wyld Stallyns.