Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
I’ve had a piece I’ve been wanting to write for the last few days, and today, it finally decided it was time to come out. I put on Sting’s Brand New Day and put a homemade pizza into the oven, promptly forgetting about it in the middle of my muse.
After the smoke cleared and the fire alarm stopped ringing and the neighbors stopped coming out into the hallway going “Who burnt the pizza?”, I finally finished the story, I’ll Never Write for The New Yorker.
This is one of those that doesn’t take comments well, so I’ve disabled them for this article. Just accept it as something I wanted to write. And if I ever ask you about it, lie and say it was great, fantastic, nothing better 😉
It’s funny what doing your taxes can do to you, isn’t it?
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand