It is almost noon, but I have not written anything yet. I had two pieces of writing by this time yesterday morning. Ouch. I am getting worried. What could I write about? The newspapers leave me cold. The weather is horrendous, but I have written about it a bit too often as of late. Nothing of any interest is taking place anywhere around me. The best I can do is to write about my own silly ways. Judging the day by the number of pieces written! Indeed, this offers yet another opportunity to poke fun at myself. What would be wrong with sitting and staring in front of myself? Nothing, of course. Absolutely nothing. But a day without a single piece of writing is beyond me at this stage. One way or another, I would write just a few words to mark the day. And this piece is the best example of writing without any purpose worth talking about. Yuck. But there is no way of changing things at this stage. I am hooked on writing, no less. A pitiful condition, no doubt about it, but an inescapable one for the time being. Enough said, though. I finally have a piece and it is not yet noon. Hooray!