Sunday brings out the worst in me. I feel a little restless, almost desperate. I'm only happy if I'm working. Oh, I could write. Let's just be honest here; how many more Ronny Elliott songs does the world need?
It occurs to me at this stage in life that it's a sketchy body of work that I will leave behind. I mean Beckett wrote "Waiting For Godot" before I accidentally began writing it over again. And again.
The weather suits my mood. I hope it rains.