Seraphinite

To lore, or not to lore, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The lorem ipsums of generated false texts,
Or to attempt peace with a sea of muses
And by placating them. To type—ne'er sleep,
No more; and by typing we turn yet again
To delete - or to lose every last word in a fit
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devilishly given to writers. To write, to lorem;
To share, perchance a critic meet—ay, there's the rub:
For once with that save button we doth successfully publish,
What readers may come and critique give us
Must cause a pause—but yet there's worse
Ne'er doubting the calamity of critiques,
Yet worse may come, when we're scorned by time,
No critics come, no readers speak. Words written, yet--
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the lore's unknown
The silence of muses - unworthy words!
Why merit give to patiently crafted tales,
Why exchange sweet slumber for labored typing,
When stories might ne'er a reader meet,
And lorem ipsum doth a filled space make?
With this most likely fate, why contemplate
To grunt and sweat under a muse unwilling?
But the dread of someone looking at lorem,
The undiscovere'd story, from whose mind
All writers will to fall sensibly in good word,
Yet makes us rather bare, language failing.
Then how ignorant of origin we seem!
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

-Zzz April 2023