galaxy42

I remember watching my grandfather working in his little wood shop when I was a child. I'd watch as he would make careful measurements and skilled cuts on the wood. I watched his hands. I remember how old they looked. I saw what seemed to be thousands upon thousands of little lines and wrinkles all over the back of his hands.

Little wrinkles and lines.

I remember wondering what age that started to happen to people. I hadn't noticed it on my father's hands. I can't even guess how old I was when all this was going through my mind. But I do remember thinking it.

I just looked at the back of my hands and I can see, very clearly, all the little wrinkles and lines.

On top of it all, I have writer's block. I was so hoping that today would be the day that I would be able to get a short story off the ground, at least. I'd feel even better about making a good start on the novel that's been knocking around inside my head for the past 7 or 8 years. I'll feel lucky if I can finish this blog with a coherent thought.

The weather is too nice to stay inside, but I don't know where to go or what to do.

I feel like a giant slug.