I believe a writer needs to have a bit of crazy in him. I’m saying this, of course, because I’m feeling quite neurotic right now and I know this must be good for something.
I’m looking at the hill again and this time it looks like a lava-disgorging, ash cloud-spewing volcano. I’m tired and stressed out, and the knot in my chest is back, and I don’t like this feeling at all. Can it please be July already?
I’m not about to go on with this futile rambling; I should optimize this mood by continuing work on my protagonist.