And now . . .

And now I’m in Bucharest and the amount of writing that I’m actually doing and not just thinking about doing has slipped to just slightly above zero. It should be the opposite; three days by myself, working long hours along, a slow conference hall during the day and an empty hotel room at night. No. I sit behind the stall and I read. Broken and interrupted reading. In the evening I lie on the bed with the television flickering and muted in the background. I stream movies and TV shows to my laptop and check my phone even though roaming is turned off. I flick flick flick between distraction, agitated, restless, waiting for the flight home.


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