The rains crash. It wanes, dripping. Then, again, it, ah, ah, itchy clouds wriggle, tree trunks brace , ah, ah, another brilliant, choo. Idea. Words are like the last waves of monsoon … the random, thoughtless and sporadic. Always on the verge of threatening floods, yet, never, quite … empty threats. My writing is an empty threat. A novel who will never be. A sterile woman perusing shelves of baby names, lost in a book store on a windy day. Bodle used to say I wrote sentences like runaway trains. Now it feels more like window shopping. That's part of my excuse for not writing properly to you people. In my last entry I sent out a call for hellos and then responded to, well, none. It's totally personal. Part of the joy in running around
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