There is a fly buzzing around my head. Every so often he gets tired of bothering me, and buzzes off in the direction of the window, where he bumps against the glass pane.
The happy, quiet, mellow background sound of Josh Woodward is coming from my tiny laptop speakers. A brilliant and poetic lyricist, but better than that his music is free.
I'm fingering my little moleskine notebook, and there's a grease mark on the front and I don't know where it came from. There's also a rip in one of the pages.
I can't focus long enough to have a train of thought, can't sit still long enough to get anything done, just letting my mind wander until something useful comes.
The blacktop pavement is wonderfully warm, accompanied by the sneezes from the crumbly pollen littering the driveway. How tolerable spring is, eh?