Tuesday, January 14, 2014

The Portending Year

January the 13th is so much less filled with expectations than January the 1st. Or so one would like to think. My posts grow sparse, my thoughts concurrently numerous, and their continuity unending and threatening to never solidify. Even perfunctorily. So then I put off writing. I change sheets, I mess with tablecloths. I play house. Floors sparkle, glasses even more so. Pressure cookers whistle comfortingly as I tell myself to put food before writing, and pontification and waiting over clear ink. Or typeface. Facebook posts make up for the paucity of action. Indicating that wee bit of thought that convinces one that the life of writing is not yet on the wane. Terrible. I know. And yet not terrible enough.Happy sort of new Year y'all.

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