writing

I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like doing anything either in this rainy, cool weather. I’m contented to just dig in, dig into the soft coverlets of my bed and let the speakers blare out whatever music that I feel like playing at the moment. I just feel like lying there and letting the music wash over me, wave after wave, note after note, each note bringing up a different piece of memory. And I just lie there, piecing all the different slices of memory together into one like a child playing with his first jigsaw puzzle, entranced by what he sees as the whole picture.

I’m in a no-writing mood even though there are many things worth writing about now.

So I shan’t write anything. And you aren’t reading anything that I wrote.


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