The temperature was in the fifties today. It has already dropped into the thirties and the teens are in the forecast for tonight. It seems like everyone I have been speaking to recently has been exhausted, and I an no different. I've slept much of the weekend, and could probably sleep more, if there was more time.

Much of my sleep has been so deep it has been dreamless. At other times, I've surfaced enough to enter into long complicated dreams. They have many of the standard aspects of dreams, flying, being back in college. In one part, I was holding these long nails, I'd guess they were about the length from my elbows to my finger tips, which I've always heard is about eighteen inches. They were probably a quarter of an inch across, and if you took a cross section of them, they were shaped like plus signs, and not the typical circle. I believe these nails were part of what made it possible for me to fly.

I flew by tall apartment buildings, probably around ten stories tall. Each floor had a balcony with large, thin furry dogs on them, something like Irish Wolfhounds. At the end of my flight I ended up in some lounge where there was a piano, someone commented, "This is poetry, but what is that to me?"

So, here I am tired, yet writing, working on the discipline of writing. This evening's blog post, as the temperatures drop outside, is further from poetry than some of my other writing, but the question, "what is that to me' echoes in my ears. The intent of this blog post is to stay disciplined, to write every day, but what sort of impact will it have? Will it inspire others to pursue their craft with discipline? Will there be nuggets in here that will inspire people, spawn a new creative idea?