It was one of those days…no calls came in. None went out. It’s odd to have a day where no one talks to you except the chirps and yawns of your dogs. I was home all-day and planning to catch up on sleep and apparently the universe acquiesced and provided me with silence. No TV, No music, and the dreams were weird and on the verge of unsettling. One could imagine they were actually part of a zombie apocalypse with no human contact in a 24-hour period. The heat and turning fan added to the odd sensation of being in no man or woman’s land. Normally my older dog had something to say throughout the day if I tried to sleep, but not today. I did rest well, but there is always something unsettling about waking up late in the evening and you haven’t had to speak to a single soul. If one lived in the country, that might be more normal. I live in somewhat seclusion, so it could work. I’m not lonely and I am clearly addicted to huge amounts of personal space it just was a no talking day. So I wrote. Still working on finishing the short story book until I woke up and some characters demanded to be recognized for a completely different short story. Two thousand words later I’m still writing on it. Now that I am taking a break, it occurred to me writers have millions of stories to tell. We’re like golden geese, but if you cut us open…the stories would be lost forever. Isn’t that something to consider, all the stories and characters we’d never know about if someone tried to get them sooner than we are able to free them via the pen. All artists are golden geese, when they are cut up (die) so much is lost to us forever. I guess I’d better get writing.