I am sitting here with my stubborn writer's silence. Inside my head I hear no words as the dusk darkens and I grow smaller under a fading sky.

Threatening my writer's block, I say that with daylight gone we'll disappear. We can't exist in darkness without a voice.

From the back of Jerry's motorcycle I drifted through cotton candy patches of lilac blooms, green scents of cut grass, a cigarette in the car ahead, and road fumes.

For a few minutes I forgot about writer's block until I listened inside my head and heard cotton-filled silence.

Things could be worse. I could accidentally use my voice at the wrong time like a coworker today on her cellphone who said, sure, I'll be there. I just have to drop off a urine sample first.

While my narrator rests her voice, I guess I will start listening.

By the way, I finally wrote to Ann.