The Waiting of Solvejg, Thomas Heath Robinson. 12154, November Novel. I can hear it blustering about outside, huffing and puffing, making the palm fronds spastic, skinny trunks bending cautiously, scandalizing the trees, tumbling through their leaves in lascivious exploration, exposing dull undersides to sharp-edged sunshine, scrubbing the clouds thin, kicking about rambunctious. I took a walk through the neighborhood this morning, went down to the beach, and watched the wind chase sand spiraling along the ped walk. It proved too much for me and chased me home with my empty coffee mug.
I hope to get a thousand words written today. Still have not thought of a title.