There’s thunder in the distance, and rain just outside the window. The side of the house next door looks like a distorted leering cartoon animal of some kind and I’m craving whiskey.
Which means I’m about to have some whiskey.
I have nothing in particular to write about, it just seems like a prime moment to do some writing. Why squander it? As I type out that very question the thunder cracks out much closer by. I realize that that’s not actually an answer, but damned if it doesn’t put me in the zone.
"Saturn 3," 1980