Yesterday I foolishly decided to get a tiny bit of work done first. I never got back to writing.
Privately, offline at least, I’ve been talking with folks about learning to knit. I can’t say that I have the slightest clue as to why. Nothing about the output of knitting I’ve seen coaxed me to learn. Ugly socks, a clingey poncho, a scarf, or a metric shit-ton of aborted scarfs more frequently called potholders are what I’d call inspiration-free. Regardless I now own two sets of knitting needles and three blobs of yarn.