So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain beside the white chickens

The cursor is blinking patiently at me, waiting, as I stare at this screen in empty thought. I feel like I used up all my words yesterday, finally let the three thousand pound elephant out of the room (although I suppose there's another one in a different corner if we can ever turn our gaze). Somehow with those exclamations I freed myself to some degree and am now stunned by the plethora of options. I could write about politics, ultimate, olive oil, important memos, garbage. Still it winks at me, knowing my predicament and either laughing at it or sympathizing - it's hard to tell with a personified bit of visual data. And yet we have some form of relationship in my mind however odd and crazy that may sound. With my computer constantly trying to implode, the actions of my cursor in any given open window are indicative of the health of my system. I fear the freeze, worry about the uneven tempos, panic when it never appears. It serves as comfort in empty space and apparently inspiration for words, however slight they may end up tonight. I am exhausted by thought and possibility, by sun, dust, and sore toes. And yet, for the first time in a while, I am content.