Gentle visitors, of late your humble Contributors has spent his days in a feverish fight with all manner of motions, satchels of subpoenae duces tecum, a plethora of praecipe, and any number of nebbishes -- such that, late in the evening, he finds himself in a kind of listless languor, a lack in search of a lurch, marked by a certain lingering, ludicrous lugubriosity. It must be the season.
Our Muse, as it were, is on holiday. Lounging poolside in some sunny clime. Noting the increasingly frequent rings from her desperate Musee, but not picking up. Finding it all mildly 
amusing, then sipping her umbrellaed drink and turning her olive, supple face back towards that bright orb often associated with her master, Apollo.
Yes, the Sun God does appear more chiseled and bronzed than your humble Contributor. The set of weights -- presumptive instruments of fitness -- lay heavy and undisturbed on the floor. Our unfortunate countenance suffers an appalling pallor that frightens domestic animals and the infirm -- a overall sense of flabbiness and albinic pigment governs and serves as a metaphor for this writing life.
And, yet, Spring is just around the corner. Yes, Spring and its rejuvenations! The last frozen flake will fall late tonight, and thereafter the Earth shall venture out in verdure, budding forth in a kind of daffodilic frenzy! And, our gentle Muse shall return -- tanned, rested, and ready -- and rouse your humble Contributor from his languid slumber.
Comments