Every day in the mirror, new lines. Sometimes, they are a bit funny. At other times, oddly so.
A word means something within the requisite statistical margin for error. A snake in a tunnel.
(Somehow I always find myself stumbling about in the marginalia. Damned Freud.)
Music's a mystery. I stand on the threshold, fumbling with the keys. It's not just a question of of black and white. It's also about color. And all those shades of grey. The guitar is no less merciless a master. No matter how much I fret, the instrument still strings me along.
Sometimes, the muse sneaks into my memory palace, turns on all the lights, hires a band, tweets the invites, and spikes the punch. Leaving me to foot the bill.
Lord, grant me the grace to laugh and the wings to take advantage of the levity. [Angels fly because they take themselves so lightly. G.K. Chesterton.]
In the meantime, I've got to find my internal editor. I'm pretty sure my muse has left him bound and gagged in a closet around here somewhere. Typical.