Waiting with limp fingers against the keys I realize the strain of a quiet mind.

Someone asked me, how do you think of things to write about?

I don't think of things to write about, I pray for them. Something in my brain spits images or pieces of a phrase at me and I start knitting…

I keep stray thoughts on paper hoping that the words will do more than keep track of where I plunk my wine glass.

I think I have somehow chopped the line tethering me to interest. It's all the same flavor, unless it's a dog.