There are days my creative efforts feel like I'm whistling into the wind. They are caught, dissolved and dissipated before they can congeal into something meaningful. The ground for the seeds of my ideas sometimes feels incredibly infertile and everything dies on the vine. Can I squeeze any more metaphors into this posting?
Today, though, sitting at the computer and writing on my literary project seemed to be the best use of my time. Some really satisfying stuff was accomplished. I think I'll go watch the exquisite sunset, now, with a really nice glass of wine to mirror it's colors in my hand.
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