I have written the title; it’s a start. The rest of the available space screams at me like white noise. Where are the words going to come from? They normally bubble up from within but today my mind is as blank as the screen.
I am always searching for new ideas, armed with my notebook. The scribbling makes sense to no-one else. I listen, I watch, I feel. I bemoan the fact that I do not have the time nor the discipline to turn the words into something tangible.
Writing, in whatever form, is my escapism. Always searching for Utopia.
Formulated after reading the Mr London Street "100 words" posts