HOME | DD

Description
Once there was a curiously interesting girl. On a day that no one knows in particular she calmly did two loads of laundry, washed her hair and wrote a song on the guitar. It is of no importance that she did not know how to play the guitar. It was the concept. Fortunately the concept went exceptionally well with the tune. “I’m tired of trying to sleep.” The girl said after she strummed the last bit. “I believe I’ll write a book. But not about my insomnia. I think I’d want it to be more interesting and slightly more spectacular.” She then brought in her pet rock off the front porch. A cold front was to sweep in that night.  “What shall I write about, Ebby?” she inquired of her rock. Ebby wasn’t feeling very conversational, however. And so that day that no one knows in particular ended. The curious girl felt that inspiration was a fickle creature and for the moment, she would leave her unwritten book to sit. It didn’t bother her much. She let things sit often and there was usually a positive result in such actions. Like Ebby. She let him sit all day, and never a more loyal pet would you find. The girl smiled a little, slipped her hands in under her bedsheets and wrapped them in her fingers. She did not much like the end of the day. She cried a little, stroked her cat that had it’s mottled whiskers under her chin, and after a little while, she slept.
A time went by as the book sat. The curiously interesting girl did not change much, Ebby did not change at all, and her cat only grew a bit fatter.
So on another un-particular day, this girl sat down to write something. She was used to letting things sit. But she was tired of it. She wondered if maybe letting things sit was not the best strategy for literary inspiration. And she connected ideas on paper, but the girl was unsatisfied. The ideas were connected, but they weren’t supposed to be.  “I must have killed it,” she gulped. How horrific.
She sighed.  She let both Ebby and the cat out for the morning. And she poured herself a glass of milk with a bendy straw. But even with chocolate in it and with music playing it wasn't consoling. “I hate it when things sit so long they die.” she commented softly to the row of tomato seedlings sitting forlornly along the edge of the kitchen table.

Description
Once there was a curiously interesting girl. On a day that no one knows in particular she calmly did two loads of laundry, washed her hair and wrote a song on the guitar. It is of no importance that she did not know how to play the guitar. It was the concept. Fortunately the concept went exceptionally well with the tune. “I’m tired of trying to sleep.” The girl said after she strummed the last bit. “I believe I’ll write a book. But not about my insomnia. I think I’d want it to be more interesting and slightly more spectacular.” She then brought in her pet rock off the front porch. A cold front was to sweep in that night.  “What shall I write about, Ebby?” she inquired of her rock. Ebby wasn’t feeling very conversational, however. And so that day that no one knows in particular ended. The curious girl felt that inspiration was a fickle creature and for the moment, she would leave her unwritten book to sit. It didn’t bother her much. She let things sit often and there was usually a positive result in such actions. Like Ebby. She let him sit all day, and never a more loyal pet would you find. The girl smiled a little, slipped her hands in under her bedsheets and wrapped them in her fingers. She did not much like the end of the day. She cried a little, stroked her cat that had it’s mottled whiskers under her chin, and after a little while, she slept.
A time went by as the book sat. The curiously interesting girl did not change much, Ebby did not change at all, and her cat only grew a bit fatter.
So on another un-particular day, this girl sat down to write something. She was used to letting things sit. But she was tired of it. She wondered if maybe letting things sit was not the best strategy for literary inspiration. And she connected ideas on paper, but the girl was unsatisfied. The ideas were connected, but they weren’t supposed to be.  “I must have killed it,” she gulped. How horrific.
She sighed.  She let both Ebby and the cat out for the morning. And she poured herself a glass of milk with a bendy straw. But even with chocolate in it and with music playing it wasn't consoling. “I hate it when things sit so long they die.” she commented softly to the row of tomato seedlings sitting forlornly along the edge of the kitchen table.