Oh, I live a lazy man's life. Folks back home ask if I've retired. From what? I haven't played since a house concert in Tampa, next to last visit. I picked up a guitar this morning. Felt about as familiar as if I had fondled an oboe.
Now, for whatever reason, I'm thinking about writing a book. Actually, I've had this story idea for several years- I've just run out of excuses to keep from writing.
Of course I'm aware that selling a book, never a walk in the park, is close to impossible these days. Do you suppose that people read?
Maybe if I keep right still, this, too, will pass.
Why would anybody mess with paradise?
