Cold March. Strange. My tea gets cold as I write words that make sense but are meaningless.
Water is boiling in the kitchen. I wish I had the wordss and the tales. BLAH.
I cannot write. I have the things I want to say, of that I'm sure for I feel them. They're in my mind, they're in my soul.
Oh, what is this? I'm just writing one word after another. They make sense, but still have zero meaning.