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.
Yes.
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