Limbo Land is a wooly, itchy place.
Soft corners, but no windows. No drafts, just stale air. Nothing terrible happens but nothing good does either.
I’m stuck there, I find, waiting on inevitables (i.e. treacherously old muse and heartworm-ridden new muse).
My mind can’t really concentrate on much in this wool.
I simply idle.
Limbo Land is an infuriating place in which to linger.
Avoid the wool. This, I warn as I idle.