It’s raining. Something about a steady rain always makes me contemplative, as though it helps me feel some connectedness to the greater world, the world outside these walls and out across the valley down the river to the sea, or perhaps to the world within this skull.

I write in my head too often, with a cycle of idea, composition, review that leaves me with something firm in my head. Only, I too often fail to get it down. On the computer. In a notebook. On the back a receipt, even.

So instead, all I am left with are fragmentary ghosts. And those, too, are fleeting, leaving only the troubled nagging feeling one associates with thinking you may have left the oven on. Or was it the stove. The iron? Ah, such is the construct of the less-than-perfectly-regimented life.

But then, really, how good are the ideas that stem from the perfectly regimented life?

Hmm. I think it’s stopped raining. For the moment.

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