I adjusted the stool three times, and sat back down, determined to write. I didn't know what. Maybe something about the ratio of cars to bicycles rolling by the window. The quality of foam on my long gone chai. The color of the bright teal wall. The two old men playing backgammon on an iphone. The handlelessness of my cup. The difficulties in deciding which trash or recycle bin your cup goes into. Whether it will rain or not...
I still don't know what to write about. I notice things, but don't ask questions. I take them how they are and don't ask why or how or want to change it. It makes me a boring writer. Or maybe...it's not what I write that's boring. I know better than to write boring things. Which turns me from a boring writer to an infrequent writer. Because my unboring thoughts are few and far between.
