Half the year is gone, blown by savage winds, lashed by sudden intense showers.
The journey continues, this path not walked by feet but measured out by black marks on the white. Outside the window the wind is tearing into the trees like some demented being. Inside here the loudest noise is the keyboard. What else?
I spent the month writing and submitting and waking up the next morning to write some more. Stories came, sometimes reluctant, sometimes unwilling and sometimes frisky as a puppy who can’t wait for the slow crawl of pen or keyboard.
Stories came, and they were beautiful. They always are, even the unusable ones.
So, July bites the dust, but I am still going on a road which will never end, and that is the beauty of it.