[my Notifications and Responses etc. seem to be all out of sync. I’ll put this here and see what happens]
I did it again: make a rule, break a rule. Stupid boy. Sorry.
Babysteps is Gail. There is some reason.
That was inordinately difficult to write. You may congratulate me.
[this, on the other hand, is easy:
Babysteps Herriotta, mafiosa madonna, smiled silently atop the horse as her puppets danced, capering about the thing that neither of them understood. She loosed a string, and the hawk on her arm lifted, wheeling into the sky. Its bejewelled jesses flashed in the sunlight.
A messenger approached, bearing the standard of the Acolytes Of The Dressage. “Speak,” she commanded. The horse snickered.
… and so on. You don’t do fiction, do you? I can’t not do fiction*. Pray for me.]
So, here’s a plan: four threads. This one, which I expect to fizzle out shortly, indeed right now; the one nearby that’s meandering into Royal Wedding territory, likewise; a thing about Neil Young just below your long piece; and something perhaps a little bit like yours. That one will be freestanding somewhere, and take time, if it happens at all. A new departure, you inspiration you.
How did I get here?
*or barely-organized made-up nonsense