What could he do to show what was on his mind if he didn't even know himself?
His mind made it's home in the upper bleachers. Wind-swept and wrapped in a blanket, it nursed a thermos of hot cider waiting for the game to turn around. He sat with a fixed gaze upon nothing, not really thinking, not really looking.
His mind seemed to wander easily as of late, scampering from one idea to the next.
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I have been neglecting my writing lately and there is a local poetry reading that I think I am going to attend... it makes me a bit nervous, I've never read my work in front of people, but I usually thrive under pressure, so here's hoping!
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