Today was cold and grey and unspringlike; I didn't go out, I made myself dinner, I read a couple of books and a couple of scripts and worked on nothing except this story which I am still trying not to break. I don't seem to have the brain to work on anything else. I remember being able to multitask around fiction, but I suspect that was when I did not go years between completing stories. Both of the cats have been affectionate and inconvenient. I am telling myself it is not bad to have days like this.
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Active Entries
- 1: Every song we sing and every kind of place
- 2: In my time on earth, I said too much, but not nearly, not nearly enough
- 3: A wreck of possibilities, a volatility of stars
- 4: And there's this all-night garage and the 7-Eleven
- 5: So Krishna stole the butter, did he?
- 6: ?פֿאַר װאָס זאָל איך אײַך געבן דירה-געלט אַז די קיך איז צעבראָכן
- 7: You brought me back a lemon and you squeezed me tight
- 8: I was never there, I only read the book, I only saw the film
- 9: Here we are half-awake
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