Discreet Music | January 8, 2018

Came home from work and washed my hands, poured the last of the white wine. The January bugs are back, gray and plain, looking in at me sideways. A flock of birds like playing cards shuffled, then rearranged. There must be a name for that look we have, going into work or coming home: trying to distance ourselves, separate the two. One is building up, the other broken down. I got under a blanket and tried to empty myself, to make room for something new, but nothing came.

Categories: Memoir, writing

Tags: , , , , , , ,

7 replies

  1. sometimes it’s good to just rest then, and not expect anything to come to you –


  2. It is the time of year to sleep.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Work not feeding inspiration.
    Neither is this holiday.
    Feel petulant and guilty. Missed opportunity!
    Yesterday a Russian record seller with missing teeth explained to me that Nils Bohr (spelling?) was correct and Einstein wrong and that evolution is mathematically impossible.
    And I still couldn’t unlock.

    Liked by 1 person

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