Raymond St. Elmo
As a writer, I have found inner peace, outer tranquility.
No more loud crazy parties. No more mail-box jammed with invites. No knocks upon MY door by shallow Opportunity. Ha! My phone is a stone upon a forgotten grave; deliciously still. My social calendar is an empty arctic plain, free as the wind blowing in the background of a Pink Floyd riff.
I listen to the dust fall, mote by mote by mote, across the silent floor of my writer's life, appreciating a depth of satisfied oblivion entirely untouched by the desire to have someone, anyone call me or email me or read my books or remember I exist.
Entirely.
As a writer, I have found inner peace, outer tranquility.
No more loud crazy parties. No more mail-box jammed with invites. No knocks upon MY door by shallow Opportunity. Ha! My phone is a stone upon a forgotten grave; deliciously still. My social calendar is an empty arctic plain, free as the wind blowing in the background of a Pink Floyd riff.
I listen to the dust fall, mote by mote by mote, across the silent floor of my writer's life, appreciating a depth of satisfied oblivion entirely untouched by the desire to have someone, anyone call me or email me or read my books or remember I exist.
Entirely.
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