It’s cold. The days when shorts were regular wear have long ended, an almost magical event when one lives in Southern California, where shorts should be handy all year long. The air is crisp, one might say perfect weather.

I lost the day in a welcomed way, doing more artistic, helpful work which somehow passed the time significantly faster than writing. Writing is for my soul, doing this kind of stuff is in my heart. I love losing track of time, forgetting I didn’t eat lunch and realize twelve hours of working have passed without me significantly wearying. I’m sure the says something about me.

All part of the process of becoming I realize. Finally, I am able to listen to those whispers which have accompanied me all my life, whispers which result in mid-life crises if too long ignored. Some pick up these things quickly.

I’ve always been partial to the tortoise myself.