I see piles of unread books on the tables and more books languish in my Kindle.  I need to read but between The Curmudgeon and the dogs it seems I am not allowed to do that. 

     I hear the characters’ voices in my brain begging me to write them down and again although I need to do it I haven’t done it. 

     The house smells of wet dogs.  I need to clean and yet I haven’t done that either.

     Bitter and sweet the taste lingers on my tongue.  I think of grabbing another cup of coffee.