Something’s off this morning, something distracting me. Thoughts on what it could be, but ignored.
More caffeine. Possibly more after the latte, who knows.
Cold outside, car said 32 at Emma’s school, Jack’s as well.
Mood, hard to word, or construct some evidential architecture around. Not angry or sad, more nerve-placed, anxious yes but wanting something to happen, or change.
Look over at the bookshelf, the bookends Mom bought me for this office, “WRI-TER”. Seriously, why do I question? Why do I ask where this is headed, this new sales story and my whole Composition, character.
I’m a writer. Writing About… EVERYTHING. The kids are the Everything, and they are reading.
Cold outside, only a mood to drink coffee, write books, and be happy. The mask Mom bought, later becoming and now I’m reminded IS my business plan, life plan.