The Idle in the Wool

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.

And idle.

And idle.

Limbo Land is an infuriating place in which to linger.

Avoid the wool. This, I warn as I idle.

Until tomorrow…


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