It’s hot and sticky. There’s a storm, all around and the pulse of thunder pushes through the world in regular intervals. The rain adds more heaviness to the air, making for a curtain of thick, viscous humidity as I walk through the apartment.
I have a bottle of wine that’s old and the wine has lost its sweetness. A bitter sour taste has begun to creep around the edges and there’s an acidic bite that wasn’t there a few days ago. But it’s cold and it burns and it does the job that I need it to do.
Old blues pipes through in a shrill tinny way through the speakers and I can hear Robert Johnson and Lead Belly howl through a filter of age and dust and scratches and I can hear the mellow tang of sadness and joy blending on the strings of an acoustic guitar.
The wine sits in a burning hole in my gut.
It’s time to write.