I can't today. I have nothing to tell you. No stories sorted themselves from the litter, I didn't find the footprint of something under the dust I have tried to blow off the tops of the things that matter. The weather is like treacly dishwater blown through your ears and I am tired and irritated and ignoring with prejudice the knocks at the door. Letters on the desk poke gently at the sleeping box of anxiety and I have too many other things to do, things which might not matter, but I cannot tell. I took bags of clothes to the charity shop and made banana bread. I sharpened flint in my mind because not all differences of opinion are created equal and I am tired of being told that variation simpliciter in people's thoughts makes things more interesting, for it does not.
Interesting thoughts make things more interesting.
And if you wonder who is to be the judge of that, it is you. Good luck.