There I was, rising out of my bed, ready to write, and between the bedroom and the kitchen, passing through doors, walking on floors, covering the old dog, and then, what? Where was I? What was it I wanted to do?
It was like waking up to a fresh dawn, singing birds, sun streaming in, and falling asleep again and waking up to a foggy day.
Worries creep in, puncture my buoyant balloon, send it spiraling down with an idiot long fart.
Is joy only a fantasy, a fake carrot held out for my gullible donkey?
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