Imagine, a hangover. But not from cocktails.
A heavy head, filled with fog. Thick and soupy, full of words that won’t transmit.
A fantasy filled with desire and hope.
There is no time, no peace, no focus.
But it will come. It has to.
The story takes shape, slowly, like the torso of a snowman. Getting bigger, fatter.
Until it melts. Again.
Sleep eludes. The wifi beckons. It never sleeps.
Maybe the words will form at dawn.