r a n d o m ; w r i t i n g

Unfamiliar with the routine of writing that once consumed every hour of her early morning two years prior, she laid with the blanket draped over her legs with the dirty box fan she'd had since she was about seven or eight. Her fingers were freezing and her mind was empty as she racked its useless folds for ideas.

But nothing came up, except the feeling of... longing. Were she to turn how she felt into writing, would she get the point across with such explicit nature it be understandable?

That's the point of a return, a comeback, I guess. Gears worn rusty from ages of weathering, tears shed over loss of interest and therefore a loss of outlet.

Welcome, to the comeback .