Porthole

Is silence better... part 2.

It makes no sense to write if I have nothing to write about. I need to remind myself that it's okay to walk away or stay silent.

56 degrees at midnight.

Nothing to say before coffee.

58 degrees at 9:40.

New contest: "Chapter One "  prompt words: boy, treehouse, lost

59 breezy degrees at 2 pm. with stray rays.

Wrote: "March 21, 1962 [117] ...as much as this Bard remembers" 

Told Blimprider: "I didn't start writing poetry until age 47. I dreamt then. I dream now. Dreamland is not governed by time. I don't have many stories growing up as I was withdrawn. Very little to mine there."

5:30... knocked my head against the wall. With numerous head injuries I have to be careful.

I'm finishing, editing, making public:

"Invitation [83]" 
"Serenade ...# [82]" 
""By the window" serenade... # [118]" 
""At twilight's edge" serenade... # [119]" 

57 damp degrees at 7 pm. It sprinkled awhile ago.

53 degrees at midnight...

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