After 12a, 15th of September, 2010. What can I do but write? I’m not ready for rest. Sleep is the cousin of death, one once said. Great day, this day, in Napa. But now, I’m in full Literary swing. Not concerned or unhealthily preoccupied with social media. I’m typing my temperament, scribbling my sentiments. I’m a writer, what else is this penman supposed to do?
Sipping a courageous Cabernet. This bottled bravado would coerce even the most staunch to launch. Wine surprises me consistently. My poetry, flowingly controlling me. One more sip, eyes fixated on odd shapes, in the dry wall.
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