rain
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I wrote three chapters of a new book last week. It was all I could think about. Then, in a miniscule microsecond fraction of irrelevant time, the spark fizzled. It’s a good thing I write these ideas down. This week, I assembled my bare-bones recording studio, and I played. I played and wrote. At one
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I was sitting outside, deep in my morning routine, and messing around with some graphics. A woman came around the corner to let her dog poop, breaking my concentration. No harm, no foul. No bounce, no play. We greeted one another, and that was that. Then, I caught the sound of bacon frying and thought
The Gonzo Wolf 