"Only you can't drink photos."

The last thing I wrote began with a description of a resilient ant. It was happening before me and it helped me get started. It loosed my mind and the words flowed out onto the page. The immediate external environment inspired me. It never used to be so. I used to be able to call to mind an issue that was in the news, or (more frequently) something that had happened to me or affected me in some way. More of a mental thing. I’ve written this before, just in other words. I need to focus because my writing mind seems thick with a dense, foggy-like fog. I need to “re-ignite the passion” (said with South American accent). I need to stop thinking in clichés!

I wrote in my little black book while I was away at Rye. And no, my little black book doesn’t contain any dirty secrets, it just so happens that my notebook is smallish and the complete opposite of white. So there’s no point in trying to steal it for purposes like blackmail or popularity-inducing gossip. Because I know that’s what you were thinking. Besides, I keep it in a wooden box with a padlock on it, so you’d need bolt-cutters to get into that box. And procuring those would require effort and planning and we both know it’s not worth it. Unless I’m just pretending to keep my little black book containing no secrets in the aforementioned wooden box with padlock.

Game, set, and match. :)

Dale.