One week left to make fun of my handwriting on the chalk board…
Despite the sun's appearance, today has been a wash, mostly making honey toast and tying and untying my hair. I leaned back as far as I could on my chair. I considered the windows. I searched the skies and looked for a way across them. I ordered pizza. Despite my friends' comments on my first chapter, I can't seem to go back to the novel. I don't even want to crack it today. I cleaned the bathroom instead. Scrubbing the tiles, my knees turned white. The floor turned less white and I decided to try that idea, that idea someone gave me about the poetry book. I have tried subject organization. I have tried time. I have tried geography. I have tried coal mining. Really. What harm will it do to try nothing at all, let the poems speak for themselves, be what they are: love letters, every one.
