The shapes of prose

I’m sitting in a hotel room shaped like a slice of pie. No, really:

Is it a Feng Shui nightmare or a magical conduit? I have to admit that even with my eyes closed, it feels strange, and I can’t decide if it’s because the sound of the heater is bouncing off uneven walls in a strange way, that I’m sitting in one corner looking down into the “point” of the pie at the door and the bathroom there, or if I’m just that tired after too many days of working and traveling.

Perhaps it is all of the above. Tomorrow promises to be no less exhausting. I will meet with my hieroglyphs students for lunch, then make my way back to the airport and back to Portland, where I will be yelled at thoroughly for abandoning Zigzag once again for the road. A few hours after I return I will head back to the airport to pick up someone else who will be staying with me for a few days.

The days are blurring together. That’s an excuse to rest before the swirl picks up once again, soon enough. I’ll do that now, with a small smile that I managed to write a couple hundred words in the blog that I’m trying to spend more time with. Does anyone really read these things? Or are they just a way for a writer in a pie-shaped room to prime the creative pump and get the prose flowing? Doesn’t matter. The words got written regardless, and now they cease until the next time.