A freewrite in exasperation.
I feel a certain sadness to writing in solitude, yet my life's destiny seems to take some cruel pleasure in wringing out the joy of writing in the company of good friends and the occasional writing buddy, leaving me with what seems to be a singular inner need, and no one with which to write.
I wonder if I've had enough to drink, some desire to nurse my muse, that one that appears only when slightly inebriated, and if I close my eyes I imagine a make-believe fairy, with a magic wand and blue silk wings, tipsy with the power of words and language, too drunk to make sense, flitting here and there with an exasperated sigh because absolutely nothing is making any sense.
"Burp."
Is there any sense in singular, like the tense in present, past or future, and I think that all I need is another stiff drink, well maybe a first, and a clue of what to write would be good too. Writing in singular is such a passe' notion, one that precludes the you and the me.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Singular.
Now for another cup of coffee.
