Moldy? It is to laugh . . .

I scoff. I only do not write because I have little to say. My days lately have consisted of me suffering prostrate on the couch or slumping in my chair attempting to elude the dull ache in my back, the searing pain in my skull, or the lingering sense of guilt for my numerous frailties.

I'm also experiencing a lull in creative aspiration, if only because so much of my pinings seem pointless. So, rather than diminish, I disappear. :)

Anyway, this is the most I can come up with currently. I must begin to grind, grind, grind, at that grindstone . . . (for time it slips, like sand through a sieve; and all at once they're up and grown and then they've flown and it's too late for you to give.)