Scrambling for personal purchase, my writing was stunted yesterday.
Oh, I got work done, but the flow of it was weak, puny if you like.
Locking the more troublesome lobes of my brain away while I wrote would solve so much. Perhaps stash them in a musty wardrobe or an old sea locker and then throwing away the key?
It’s a plan, a poor one, but a nut has to dream.