You have no idea how many sentences were written in my head before I got to this one. Eleventy billion sentences. Each of them leading nowhere. The task at hand, is impossible, you see, because there will never be a sentence as beautiful as a sky full of flowering trees. Crab-apple, cherry, plum, pink dog-wood. Everywhere suddenly, despite the chill and fog. Time seems to be slipping through my fingers. A combination of low-grade sickness and too many commitments, from the ridiculous to the monumental. And so I am playing catch up, popping vitamins, and longing for a quiet minute, time to write, and one (or three bottles) of wine. I hope to be back to my old self soon. I want, more than anything, to spend some time with the pink blossoms.
If there was suddenly an extra hour each day meant only for you, what would you do with it?