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.
