This is one of those mornings when nothing is coming to me.
Where I stare at the blankness and it remains blank.
Ah, I could write about my recent sojourn to Saltillo, Mexico.
Or today's splendid weather.
Or bending an elbow in the Tempus Fugit.
I could. But I can't.
Nothing is coming.
It happens some times.
It just ain't there.
Maybe it's pressure-induced melancholia. Maybe it was a weekend visit I had from an old ghost, my sister, who died nine years ago in a horrible motorcycle crash on Mother's Day.
Nancy visits now and again, particularly on quiet mornings when I am alone with my wife and my dog. She shows up--her awkward self and holds my hand and pets Whiskey.
All right, that's enough for me.
Wallowing is unbecoming.
Besides, I have work to do.