Friday, December 9, 2016
Writing Through the Blues
So, in the wee hours of the morning, one makes a collage. A useless thing made of useless stuff, a disarranging rearranged into an arrangement, a temporary focus on the page that calls forth a new energy. Some neurons seem to be working; some synapses seem to be bridged with the makings of an idea.
It may all be for naught. These are tough times for truth and beauty. But then again, when was it not?