We cook this life into a liquid elixir where writing should be the only thing that does satiate us.  Save the flavor of the substantive goodness we place into it.  We are sous chefs of the intuitive loosing our profound passion for passing this pen by the plateful.  Placing our purpose upon the chopping block to be diced and dissected; juiced, julienned and justified just to get a taste that lingers over the tongue.  Some moments in the process of preparation are more profound than others.  Some are downright worthless for we know the range we wish to reach when writing towards the sky.  We should be higher than this day finds us.  Perhaps instead of writing to inspire others, we should pen ourselves a new breathing apparatus and scribe new oxygen into our present atmosphere.  I just want to cook in my own kitchen and enjoy the aroma of my final product like a metaphor baking slowly beneath a cast iron enclosure.