The urge to write comes sometimes, the urge to have something truly important to say. Urge is not always accompanied by ability.
So here I am with the desire to scrawl something out that’s beautiful and meaningless, and I feel like a pistol empty of bullets. Expectation, anticipation … severed by anti-climax.
Something odd about physical beauty – the pains made to create it are singularly ugly. Eyebrow hair plucked with small hisses of pain, the skin stinging as the discards fall into the sink, coarse and thick; or shaving, really, where the difference between close and cutting is only a razor-thin line.
“You are never too old to be what you might have been.” – George Elliot
