prose

If I keep writing, will worlds unfold, the depths be revealed, my descriptions more piquant, and my heart more longing? Will the rain beating down find a rhythm in my head? Then my pen will be ‘blocked’ and the patter be a din. These letters I’ll retrace and cerebration will return. And the remnant of some thought will come wandering into view. She’ll say her name is Erin and “I have other thoughts here too”. “We’ll have a veritable deliberation with some authors you once knew.” I liked that thought, and asked if she might stay. “We’ll have pinot in the lobby and champagne on the way.” “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and linked her arm in mine. The gala was a smash; the rhythm was divine.