I keep thinking I've been writing a lot.  I check here and it's been two weeks.  Maybe I'm composing a lot.  There hasn't been much to speak of, lately.  Things have been quiet, a little weird, but mostly good.  The process is rolling with the house, and that always frees me up a little, mentally.  The house is clean and quiet, both literally and metaphorically.  All the weekends have been interesting, and a little busy, but not overwhelming.  I like January, so far.

I've been feeling younger, lately.  The cycle is rolling that way again.

I've been tackling writing lately like I doodle and draw.  I get this intent to fill up a page from corner to corner. Put it all out there, use every technique, get rid of all the white spaces.  That's how I used to go, and it became bigger than it needed to be.  Now I stop when the piece says stop.  Nothing's more interesting than rough edges and things left hanging.