The winds of a new year, another year older. Faster weeks, fewer classes and yet the stress is omnipotent. It streaks through the mind in tight orbit inside, spinning white webs of contrails throughout so that a moorish mist swirls up for the spring to fog my eyes in the bright sunlight. The harsh day.
I miss writing. It's been too long. I can't imagine what I've missed. What's been in my hands, in my fingers, then slipped out before it found paper and a good pencil to write with, it's dizzying. It's too much, much too much. Keep writing. Don't forget.
Make.
Time.
