A big blank page yawns before me this Friday pre-Superbowl morning, and once again I look to Cindy Holly, my Muse, Muse of Other, muse of few words, to help me fill it. By the way, Cindy is and has always been a winter creature, born every Feb. 2 and every overcast day. So I tell her Happy Birthday. She asks me how I’m feeling. I say I’m missing something.
“Is it something you needed, or something you wanted? Something you lost, or something you never had? Something you owned, or something that owned you? Find what sort of something it is.”
And then what?