I find, not for the first time, that I have little to say, and even less that seems or feels worth saying, or that I haven’t already said before. I could, of course, go into the far, dark side of personal minutiae, and record how many glasses of water I drink and what I eat each day; how many pages I read in books and online and their artists and authors; and a whole list of private details, chores, and concerns. Instead, I think I’ll just carry on and enjoy the quiet, and see how deep and profound it might be. Maybe something will surface from some dark corner or dimension. Maybe not. Either way, I have no expectation. A bell is rung; it rings until it ceases to ring, then it goes on being a bell.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet