I bought a pen and paper and sat inside to write.  Not much lyrically, but musically the taps opened.  I crafted a two-part verse and a chorus for a new song, but only one verse worth of lyrics.  My washing was done super fast, and into the dryer.  Suddenly it was dry, and it was time to depart.  I felt satisfied; writing had opened up something that had been off for a while and I was starting to see things for what they were.

I walked home playing, and some people sitting out the front of a house that smelt of red wine and cigarettes down asked me to stop and play a song for them, so I did, uncharacteristically nervous as my voice was unhappy from last night’s assault of cheap liquor and tobacco, my leg shaking from supporting me on the strange angle of the hill.  It was one’s birthday, and another was visiting from Darwin.  I accepted a glass of wine and we chatted and shared stories while I idly played and discussed music ethics.  In the distance, a car accelerated to redline, while a possum ambled along the power line.  I made my departure and returned home to sleep, ready to face the day tomorrow.