Happy birthday

Happy birthday to mrissa.

Quiet, but restless inside

I'm in that fretful stage where I don't know what I want to read next, and I don't really have anything to write, whether in fiction or my paper journal or here. The fiction drying up I've had several months to get used to, but when my inner commentator falls silent, too, that is new, and extremely unfamiliar and rather unpleasant. I look out upon the world with tired eyes and have little to say.

The house is cleaner, which makes me feel a whole lot better at least.