Slow news day
Last night’s rain has cooled the air, softened it. There is a gentleness in coolness; it caresses my skin, generating the odd goose bump as in anticipation. It moves my arms to hug me, and that can’t be a bad thing. It is cool but not cold, the low end of temperate.
And the words eke out, like squeezing the lifeblood from the pen, wringing it tightly to find that last drop of ink, to transform it into some word or other. A slow news day, the inspiration not forthcoming, chilled by the air into dormancy. I feel as though I could sit here all day and not get to the end of the page, like a stutterer attempting a tongue–twister.