Sometimes, when your eyes are dry and desert winds howl forlorn and aimless through the cavern of your chest, your muse feels pity at the sight of you and rises to dance. She doesn't say a word. She just smiles a subtle smile, a smile that is almost a sigh, and dances close to you, all around you. You could reach out and touch her if you so chose, if that were the nature of your relationship, but you do not. You can feel the breeze of her nearness. You can hear her light footfalls, her soft breathing. Into her dance she weaves all the notions, all the ideas, all the pictures that inspire you, those images and symbols that you both know so well. Your dry eyes fill with tears, and you take up your pen to describe how you feel, to remind yourself of everything you love about life. "No," she says, stopping in front of you to push your hand back from the page. "Keep it," she whispers. "This is only for you." And she dances on.
Hello, friends. I hope you are well. Are you?
Later. Love.
