In the words of Chuck Berry, "Same thing, every day...". I get up and check my memory and think that maybe something has faded. Just a little. I quickly check for overnight e-mails. I go to the antiquated answering machine, hoping against hope that a message was left so quietly in the wee wee hours that I slept right through it.
Then I busy myself with everyday humdrum while sadness wrestles to keep control. It usually wins. My pal, Rebekah, says that's the price I pay for being an artist.