This space has sat empty with no one to tend the store. A ghost town of words flying by but never grasped, as tumbleweeds - flashes of inspiration quickly lost to the desert wind.
Taking pen to the crisp, blank page, or keyboard to ...white space yawning into endless possibility. One way, a thousand ways, no one more important than the other. Words are words whether they fly, drip or graze across the page. Fleet of foot, a sense memory of a time when verbiage exploded outward because it couldn't be contained.
Where do they exist now? Behind bolted door? The creak of hinges grown rusty with disuse.
Cloaking myself in a writer's hood I grasp tightly to that elusive star in the distance, that sweet spot, the pure, unadulterated joy of pushing words out into the ether.
Hello world. Thanks for waiting for me.
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Yes.
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