I often have many thoughts when I walk that I want to write so badly down, but when I arrive back home, they’ve slipped from my mind like leaves down a storm drain. Perhaps writers are people who actually remember those small thoughts.
Today I was walking home in a downpour after lunch, in the little cocoon of dry that my umbrella I started belting out Christmas songs ('Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' got a good five minutes and a couple of encores) as the water swirled through the gaps between my toes and under the archway between my foot and my slippers.
The world is beautiful but I think I'm having writers' block.
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