Free-write to stimulate.  We are struggling – the both of us.  I laugh as we try, desperatlely, to recreate the temptress of words.  Fruitless we are in this dingy beach ‘paradise’ god forsaken excuse of a retreat for the writers within us.  Not without Big Sur.  Not without Jack and Henry.  Not upon this balcony that forces our attention to the dirty mayhem beneath our perch.

I call truce on myself.

The timer ticks.  I try to ink something of use from my pen.  All I want to do is look at her in mental anguish and laugh.  She seems to be really writing now though.  What if she has transcended our cavernous word game?  I still want to laugh.

Timer has not buzzed.  Longest ten minutes of my life.

 

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