There are nights when the work is done, and the mind is free to wander. Sitting down at the pub, relaxing over a pint. Something hits me... The singer is singing covers...
How I wish
How I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And I look across the table to the empty chair.

What is it? The lowered barriers as an effect of alcohol? The words of a song of a woman I once thought I loved?

Whatever the case, these are nights that the muse strikes. I almost wish that I didn't feel - that I couldn't hear what the muse asks me to write.

So I sit here, writing words, when I wish - wish that the feelings and emotions that stir didn't trouble me so deeply. Wishing that there was a shoulder to cry on. Why doesn't the tear shed in silent desperation ease the turmoil within?

Now, it is too late to head back to work to try to find something to do - something to occupy my mind and fill up time. And too early to fall asleep. And so, I write.