Tennis balls against a brick wall.Heavy rain against cold glass.Curling flame bullied by breeze. Impenetrably packaged scissors.The last pencil with a broken lead.Empty white page... Can't read; the words won't go in.Can't write; the words won't come out.
It actually felt like the first flush of summer for a perfect minute this morning. Dry-skinned and clammy-palmed from efficient all-night heating, I guiltily opened my window. Breezeless, the unseasonably mild air flooded over me. The countryside said “good morning” with lazily cooing pigeons and idly tittering blue tits, with the soft scent of lush… Continue reading A perfect minute.