Shepherd Span

Approaching 3,000 words for day.  Becoming difficult, as I tire, and this Meritage makes its way through my expanses with vicious virility.  Just have to stay typing.  The café, officially my new writing spot.  But from now on, no more full plates.  Just coffee, maybe a small bite.  But I don’t want to repeat what I wrote little over an hour ago.  Focusing on Poe, the multitudinous ways his prose is seen.  Poetry as well.. but I place more thought turns into his paragraphs, as that’s what really reveals his inner intentions.

Ms. Found in a Bottle.  Interesting, with the whole notion of travel, the sea, writing result.  And the characters, with their aims– relevance on a number of levels, especially with the idea of hidden truth– in death.  Something to perhaps entertain with 1A students, come Monday– I mean TUESDAY– the idea of truth.  Acceptance.  OF death.  The wine’s beginning to wrap around my sight, senses.  I could stop sipping, but won’t.  Why would I, with wine this good.  But that’s the extent of my reaction, reflection.. I sip, swallow, done.  Repeat.  No wine hold renders the type of regard of a Poe piece.

Enjoying the last of night’s courageous capping.  Sipping slow, as to not get unwillingly positioned in undertow.  Love the quiet, down here.  But it makes me more relaxed.  And the day’s toll’s already knocking on my vocals, to mute’s point.  A bit afraid, but I’ll type on.  That’s what Poe would do.  And I’m not sure he’d continue sipping.  He’d go deeper into his characters.  That’s one plating I need perfect.. characters.  I proclaim my affinity for Kelly, but only mention it, her, broadly.  I need further forward.  Into these lives I’ve scribed.  Kelly, when she hits forests thick, what does she do?

He didn’t reach 3,000 words that night.  It would have been too much.  It would have been obnoxious.  He sipped the blend, again.  Remembering Parisian whens.  Vacation’s lend.