It is Sunday morning. Chopin is playing; tea, clementine, and yoghurt are sharing the table with the arc of my pen—and I am uninspired. It is not the overcast grey of the sky, nor is it the snow steadily accumulating grit from passing cars. No, it is none of those things. Rather, it is my own routine which cages me and keeps the new muses from singing to my ear.
For each stroke of ink along the horizontal rules of the stationary I dive further and further into my own head. Hands ringing out thoughts as if it were water from a towel. The stack of cards, letters, and notes to which I must respond lays next to empty envelopes and unlicked stamps. Stretching and rubbing my eye with the back of my hand, I yawn loudly before reaching out to take a sip of tea. The quiet of my morning and peacefulness is unbroken and I am content.