"Gold hair in the sunlight, my light in the dawn."
Any action, repeated enough times, becomes robbed of its vitality. Setting down the first line of an entry in this journal, for example. Noting the weather, for example. But I will, because I don't know how else to begin. It's not like the days are especially distinguishable, one from the next. Not here. I can go a week without leaving the house and not even realize that I've done it.
Currently, 79˚F, and the sky is that shade of blue.
Yesterday, I wrote a measly 524 words on Agents of Dreamland. A snail's pace. I have 14,283 words to go.