March. On.

The typewriter remains in crumbles, but the month is new. I try to be the latter myself, instead of the former, despite the face in the mirror. The rainy morning gives way to gale warnings as I make my way down the river promenade, only barely keeping the feet from getting knocked out from under me. At the base of the footbridge back to the grid, the first daffodils are making their way out of the earth. 

I woke early this morning to put some new words on a blank page. It's a cruel gamble, an old drug habit where a little hit no longer does the trick and you're no longer sure the right dosage. But every now and then, the ink hits a vein, every now and then you strike that perfect high, and words pour out of you like time is nonexistent. 

And you've been around long enough now, been an addict for long enough now, to know that the possibility of that hit will keep you coming back to the blank page
for the rest of your days. 

The month is new. That'll do, for now.