Need to pick up my studies, again. French. Need to be fluent by next visit, which could be this year, if the book sells well. My sister, posting from Texas, pictures of what she meets. Images, objects, certain sights. Already into coffee I brewed earlier, before Alice brought mocha to me. Right now, Jack and I listen to music. He’s looking at the screen, the picture of the Artist. He looks back at me, as if to say, “Get off that laptop and start scribbling some songs.” He’s right, my little thinker. Songwriting.. pure poem. Entailing nothing mechanical, no tech, nothing digitized. Only mind, eye. Ink, from what I think.
Just scribbled a little verse. Keeping habit up through day. Random rimes, whatever I think. Doesn’t need to make “sense.” Sense? I always ask, “Sense of what?”