Melancholia.

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.