THOMAS DID NOT REALIZE AT THE TIME THAT METAPHORS ARE NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH

This is Heather, one of nature's ever-changing mysteries. It affects every single one of us every single day of our lives, yet we know almost nothing about it.

Heather--now that's something we'd sure all like to do something about.

*****

I'm reading through some old writing and thinking a lot about my long-lost muse, the bright young woman in the photograph who once possessed the uncanny facility to remake me from the marrow into who I really am. I still think about her every time I write and try to make her laugh, impressed.

It isn't easy settling back into writing from Dad's house. Sometimes, very late at night, I see him awake wandering silently through the house to check up on me without being too intrusive. It is a rare experience, watching an old man sneak. I snap momentarily out of the writing delirium knowing I've awakened him hammering on the keyboard and whispering spooky lines in the dark just to nail the tonality like, "the spell is broken... the spell is broken... the spell is broken."

The spell is broken, cyberfiends. Good night.

Tunes tonight: You Forgot it in People by Broken Social Scene and parts of The Unbearable Lightness of Being are playing in my head like-enough to a love song.