I love my apartment on Monday mornings. All the surfaces are clear. By Friday they're filled with dishes drying, mail unprocessed and the general detritus of day to day life. Three days felt like quite a lot but still not enough.
This is the first time I have written at work. I'm always here early. I drink my tea and eat my fruit and muffin. Get the new data. Read the news. I ought to be able to write a post.
This morning I learned that a bunch of tedious and time consuming work that I did last week got clobbered and needs to be redone. I'm not upset. I like having work to do. And this task will fill up the day.
I used to hate when people I read went silent. I look at my blog every day and feel wrong. But I don't want to keep writing about why I'm not writing. Blogging can be very meta if you don't have a specific intention. I've spent hours thinking about why I do (did) it and if it matters. I always come back to wanting it.