It’s a Circus Out There



Laying my finger tips on the keys I wait for inspiration to descend – trying to channel brilliance from the ether to the screen

My hands are poised Waiting to act solely as a conduit for someone else’s thoughts, and words

Someone more eloquent, more articulate than I

My muse, in the M3, is muted; making camp on the Murphy-bed

 

Hiding

 

Her heels dug in, headstrong and hardened

She doesn’t know that I can see her as She peers sadistically out from the wide angle lens of the Leica on the mattress, and I smile

She’s enjoying this

Tormenting me