He wanted to just close the day, go to bed. The book wouldn’t let him. She wouldn’t. He had to write. Or at least try. He poured himself a glass, even though it would probably keep him up.
Relaxing in my writing corner, sipping what remains of the 50/50 Sangiovese/Barbera blend opened last night. Long day, but one more slightly successful at work. What wouldn’t leave my mind, while at my desk, the useful thoughts enjoyed in the morning’s commute. Gentle sun jumping through fading fog, gifting invaluable notion. Or I guess they’d be “visions,” wouldn’t they? My sight, forever different, either way. Listening to Wine beats, garnished with boomeranging feminine vocals. If only She were here, in this Room, to sip this scene, with me. I shouldn’t have all this to Self. Another sip. Me, even further convinced. This character, tips my equilibrium into delicious delirium. Sip her, my serum. What does fiction, non-fiction matter? Virtual vertical, on my pages. She’ll be books. I’m wrong, aren’t I? Blend in glass. On page. Internally. And she, one I can’t deconstruct with fatuous lemmas. But, I can still see an outline; tangible, vast, past. I’ll just sit here, sipping, thinking of how to convey melodic being, in distinguished distance from my penned predictability.