Feeling blocked. Want to write the great american novel, want to draw the next Picasso, want to play the next Paganini...want to do something.

The problem with staying home with the purpose of working in mind is that invariable, one ends up doing nothing at all.

I rather wish the stupid computer weren't so limited...I'd like to sketch upstairs. Much better environment than the kitchen, specially since I've cleaned my room a bit.
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"How strange...this place feels so familiar."

She didn't see the wizened old man before he stepped out of the shadows to appear at her elbow. "It feels familiar, young lady, because you were here last week, and the week before that, and the week before that."

"Why don't I remember?"

"Because four weeks ago, someone put a bullet through your brain and it hasn't occurred to you yet that you're dead. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

She looked up at the giant portrait on the wall thoughtfully. The daunting visage of the old woman seemed to glare down in disapproval. "You know, I think I'd like that."