On Writing. On Saturday.

There’s a torpid air out there. The world is standing still. A wet mist is waiting.

There’s a coffee to my right. Yesterday’s Tour de France is playing out it’s recording.

There’s a writer at the keyboard. He is tapping out what ought to be his thinking.

There’s a blank screen before him. And no matter how he tries to focus his writing…

It remains.

Empty.

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