And so he starts again, the silence punctuated by the staccato tap tap tap of the keyboard. He moves in his chair to find a comfortable pose and starts to ponder what he might write, what prose he may be able to dredge from his flaccid imagination. Prose indeed, he thinks. Another helping of scorn to add to the pile.

He knows he has to start, that the act is as much a part of the outcome as the words, that until he starts he won’t know where it will go nor where it will end.

Every step is a journey.

No, every journey is a step.

As ever he enjoys playing with naivé imagery and constructs, twisting and pulling to find something between the cracks, weeds of ideas that may have been growing there and maybe, one day, a wildflower will bend into view, gloriously colourful and new.

But not today.

Today is not for the new, but for the act. The tap tap tap of the keyboard gathering speed as he realises all he needs is to keep writing.

He ponders the story of the building, the King like nature of an untold and sinister power. Basic, rote, not worth following but worth revisiting, perhaps there are some seeds there he can cultivate.

Faltering already? It seems so but he remains happy that he started once more.

He is never sure of where it will take him. He knows he enjoys the process regardless of the outcome, most of which remains hidden away, trashed.

He is writing again. For now.

I am happy with this.