Today I run off a hangover. Two miles followed by a mile and a half of intervals. I can't really call what I do creative anymore. Whatever creativity I cling to between bouts of drinking, boredom, and crappy slow gated runs, seems to stay fickle. Maybe there was more of it ten years ago, or maybe I am not noticing the creativity that happens on a daily basis.
Regardless
I learned an elton john song yesterday. That was certainly a first. I plan on honing this song enough to use it for a bunch of listless children, kicking around shoes, laughing at nothing. -Summer days are bluish memories of waking, running around the kitchen, my mother cleaning the kitchen floor, all the chair upside down on the kitchen table; me within looking out as from a fort. Water guns and the taste of their plastic when shooting the warm water into you mouth. Water baloon fights; my brother throwing a ball clear over the house. Someone, perhaps my uncle, and him actually playing catch over my grandmother's house. The old dirty football you would only see on a farm; not something kept in a tidy garage, but left loose in the soil for years on end. Running throw the gate into my back yard. Falling hard in the garage, my head throwing, sight circled around me, from behind me; a birds eye view.
(I thumb through a few databases to get a better answer on what Tolstoy's writing does to me intellectually and emotionally. How long has it been since I used Boolean logic? I want to try his short stories as well. Enjoying the long form novel a lot though. War and Peace, currently. )
What else?

Kept thinking it would rain; one second the sky is the color of denim,
Later I admitted to being a soap snob. The sky like nickels.
Later I brewed green tea using a microwave. The heat outside temporarily broken by one a wonderfully timed thunderstorm; lasting for most of the early morning. Rolling around, digging deeper in.
My dog stretches besides me.