Shall I tell a tale or tale a tell? A wisp of wine and wandering. Somewhere in between lies bothering.

Delved deep I am and wondering where I am to begin again. No use to start again, It's a story worth continuing but with so much depth between.

Ho Hum.
Can I skip an epoch? Can I just jump over 52 hours and then two years? No, it's the in-between when the mind rewires, it's the hem and haw between the glances, it's the stop space-back for punctuation. Isn't it.

I feel like I've been Rip van Winkle. I feel like after I hit the Publish Post button, I will be slumbering again. And part of me wants to just be done with it, to smirk and then go pee and go to bed, and another part wants to brush my teeth and finish reading The Night in Lisbon. And a third part of me wants to keep writing, forever and ever, never stop, never give it up, keep that art of me alive and awake and breathing. CPR for the writer's soul.

I don't know where we're going. I don't know what's out there. But I am so sick of stagnation and criticisms, so utterly bored with what it has become.

Breathe, me, is all I can think.