Last night I read myself to sleep at about 10 and then woke up at 3:30 in the morning. And could not get back to sleep. After lying there in the dark for about an hour I decided that I would not be going back to sleep, so I got up and sat down at the keyboard.
But nothing of any seeming significance came to mind, nothing worth writing about.
So that's that, I guess.
Perhaps I am not really a writer after all, and perhaps I have been foolishly frittering away precious time all these many, many years. Maybe I was born to be an idle dreamer. And nothing more.
Could be . . .
"All the world's a stage, and most of us are desperately unrehearsed."