I sit here on my mattress of air; unnervingly content. On my television screen plays a movie set in Paris in the 1920's. A writer meets some of his literary idols and is blown away by how human they seem. I must admit that I am somewhat blown away as well.
At the same time I peruse through the first drafts of some short stories I've written this past year. I believe they are more than first drafts. I do not like to edit much of my own worded significance. Usually I prefer to add more words to an already big pile of words and watch the pile even itself out. It is quite a sight to witness.
Now I think of what to document next. Perhaps I must wait a while longer. Perhaps I'll analyze some poetry. Line by line. Verse by verse. I shall blow my own mind.