The trouble is that writers always think the answer to everything is in the words. It’s been a whole day and I have produced nothing at all. Not a single word worth saving or repeating. My head is creaky and my mind is entirely exhausted.
I gaze out the window into the summer evening, tiny bits of dust linger suspended and then sift along on the sheer breeze. For some reason the light does not bother me today. It is soft and kind where usually it makes me cringe a little bit. The deep green leaves on my many potted plants are turning toward the sloping sun.
Pouring my wine and swallowing it down like rain water in a dying place, I think about the calmness we each exhibit as the world around us rages and burns. Humans possess an uncanny ability, it’s terribly eerie really, to deny themselves to…
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