Strange strangers reaching out to take a bite. Eerie inspirationalists seeking to incite. What is this strained attempt to establish a connection? Not sure if I’m feeling it. A little too desperate, a little too forced. I’d rather the poets that sit on their porch or in the quiet of their homes, the writers that don’t squander their energy striking a pose, laptop propped like a prop on a popular café table, examining onlookers so that inert keys link to an empty screen. But this is the age of every fleeting thought aired on the web that connects us all, every moment movement seems to stall, every moment silence begins its crawl, grasping for one thought in the giant abyss, a word that seems amiss because it says precisely what it yearns to express, or expresses nothing at all.