Attempts

Oh yes, I know, I know. Why am I not writing, come on Lisa, creative juices you still have some, don't you? And this silly little blog.
I was thinking of a poem as I was driving home, a poem on the night I left college, like a blanket pulled over my head and I couldn't remember if I had put it there or if it had just materialized, a cotton shroud. Dark and cold. It's a regret-filled moment now, but I've no idea how to go back and change the world, the night, the moment.
I was also thinking, as I was driving home, because I have more time to think that is healthy, that what I do is me. That for some reason, Ire is important. I want to have passion for something. I want... much.
Annnnd my free-writing attempt at journaling runs try on the third paragraph. Brilliant.

I WAS trying to think of an answer to Selah and Matthard's conversation in the field, which is coming along okay, but I can't decide whether I want him to figure everything out or not. If he does, will he tell Selah? Can I jump right into the Peternian thing and leave his suspicions in the air?

I like it that way, things in the air.

Like flying castles.