Cold tables do not invite neighbours.

You don’t want them to come.

Dug up some old written works, in a folder marked Written Works in the external HDD.  One of the stories I’ve written, which belongs to the group of stories I’ve written without meaning, without plot, without much semblance of anything else – usually started from a random phrase or word from the dictionary, and left to flow and form and become – as they all become – total crackpot of stories, started out with this.

Think I miss writing stories like those. I’d be tempted to try sometimes, but the words don’t flow and form anymore. It’s like the river has met the lake, and everything about rapids and torrents and salmons are forgotten.

Anyway, I want it back. I want it back very much. So much that I think I’ll just start blogging on a whim because the feeling is here. Maybe I could listen to these whims more often.

The problem with whims are, however, is that they can end rapidly. As it’s doing now.

I suppose I’ll head to bed now. And figure out this interview for tomorrow morning.

Before that:

Goodnight, people.