This is probably one of the most 'seat-of-my-pants' exercises in free-writing that I have ever tried.
For the short and dirty, this came about as the product of a toxic, mental stew that I found myself in as a result of the unique sort of depression/obsession/desperation that comes when you find yourself with the overwhelming urge to write something, but find that the creative spark just isn't there.

Hence, it was the old and familiar desperation exercise of searching through my fragments pile of old and unused pieces, ideas that never went anywhere, or ambitious attempts that ultimately collapsed under their own weight.

Often, it's like the Island of Misfit Toys, and I find myself picking up bits and pieces here and there, like a crow with shiny objects, but usually, I wind up just sadly putting them back down again, realising that I still can't use them.

Sometimes, in sheer desperation, I will grab something and try and FORCE myself to use it. This is one of those times.

Other than that particular resultant mess, the only outside influence in this dates back to an Undergrad Philosophy course I took in third year, where we discussed Schopenhauer, specifically one of his more notable quotes:

"The first forty years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it."

Sometimes in those deeper, and far more depressive moments of Midlife Crisis, it often feels like I didn't really create much in the way of text in those first forty years, let alone any worthwhile commentary since I passed 40...