Writers Block

Winds rush through half clipped spaces; they whistle in the dark through windows neither closed nor open.

The tin roof rattles; shaking just beyond that point that catches those night winds rushing.

Cold; no…

Not hot either, but neither comfortable nor at ease as those night winds whisper and whistle through this old house on the breeze.

I wonder if the television even works any more, I haven’t used it since I don’t know when.

Miles Davis plays Blue in Green, then Tom Waits, Nina, Dylan and all in between

But my own words are hard to come by; they wait for me, just beyond my train of thought and just behind my thinking

They wait until they are picked up by the rushing winds and are thrown across the lounge room floor; left discarded by the television that might not even work any more.

The wind whistles,

Roof rattles,

… I fall asleep