And I've just now switched off my Kindle. Sweet Wife is fast asleep; I envy her. She's cute with the blanket drawn tightly around her shoulders. She's so tired.
My muse fails me. I tried several times in the last few hours to write a couple of short pieces only to find my finger angrily pounding the backspace key. I've asked myself why and had to admit, to blame my pain medication is silly. My muse is tied tightly to my state of mind which isn't well these days. I'm hungry too.
I want to walk under the sun and breath fresh air. I want a bowl of clam chowder, a real cup of coffee. I want to walk the streets of some little village and peek inside a bakery where a rotund flour soaked old man removes a fresh loaf of butter soaked bread from a hot oven and says, "Help yourself."
My emotions are raw and close to the surface. I want the hell out of here. I want to hold my Little Bit. I worry about my business. Literature only takes one so far.