I'm a little worried. It's the seventh day of December and I have nothing pressing in my spirit or on my mind to write about. I'm sad about that. I love the way things stir inside me and how I plot about what I'm going to write. I love even more when the finished product proves me wrong. Sure I think about some things but lately nothing is pressing. I really am numb. Don't feel like fussing. Don't want to complain about anything. I don't care who comes or goes. All I want to do is sleep. Oh well....that's too bad.