Not for long, but for now. The rain draining from the roof patters to the deck below. In the winters deepening darkening. A cluttered life is shallow. The sky turns to gray. The stomach whines a gurgling protest.
This is early morning solitude in the library recliner. Low light pushing shadows to the ceiling.
Yesterday’s leftover coffee rebrewed into today’s.
Melancholy musings. Writing usually occurs now, but nothing. Rest is needed to get beyond the rattling ragged congestion lingering from a weeks worth of cold. Take it easier today. Errands then tidy up the left behind stashes of cluster.
Since writing starts with a silent W, why not wreading? One leads to the other, in either direction.
Moving along now, less to see now that there is true light.