I've wanted to write something for hours now but I got lost in the sticky tar pits of photo editing for far too long. A soft ray of light just invited itself in through the stained glass window and touched my face. It only took a few seconds before the curious warmth was claimed by a passing cloud. Pleasantries are strange that way; always gone as fast as they came. A spark that lingered wouldn't be a spark, I guess.
There is a pungent, cheesy smell that clings to me which has made itself a home somewhere between my upper lip and the tip of my nose. I think I must have picked it up while driving in the rental car yesterday. I'll need to shower to wash the tenacious fucker away.
I've already forgotten what it was that I wanted to write about. Perhaps it wasn't anything at all. Sometimes just the sensation of writing fills a need. Maybe the fog of early onset dementia, or Alzheimer's, has claimed the golden glow of a passing idea. Ah, the light from my window is back!
I think I'll go shower now.
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