The roof of the City Museum

Sitting on a rooftop in a cool breeze that tastes of early summer. Watching a glorious sunset begin to settle behind the city skyline. Deep breaths of fresh air between photo bursts of the sunset, all shades of deep orange and rust-red and softly glowing rays breaking through cottony scattered clouds.

But no words. Notebook and laptop silent before me. If I cannot write here, where can I? The words won't come. Ideas, images... But no words. 

So I force them, and of course they are awful. Cliches that fall on the ear with the thud of anvils like "glorious sunset."

How did I do this in my previous life? I can't remember. The words just came. Sometimes they hid, sometimes they were rough. But never this rough, and never for so long.

I was going to write about the beast in the storm. The creature that rode into a small town on the screaming energy of a tornado, and the things it did in the night between the thunderclaps. He's a nasty beast, and he wants to be written.

Maybe if I could stay on the roof a few more days.

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