All numbers are called, except the two that will give me a bingo. 54, 55, 57. I needed a 56.

Thank God it's only Bingo.

It is snowing, very lightly, very softly.

My son and I went out this evening to pick up some bread and milk. It wasn't too cold. Crisp. With lightly falling flakes. The perfect kind of winter.

I've made my client happy today with some work I've done.

My son is here beside me, playing with the keys on my keyboard.

Life is, Alhamdu-Lilla, good.

I'm writing something after a long long time. I see people here who have children, and busy lives, but yet manage to keep the spark of their creativity alive.

I have not been able to.

I go back and read over things I have written before. Some of it is good, some not so good. One or two things, I dare to say, are even very good.

But words don't come to me anymore. They used to flow from my fingertips. Not anymore.

I'll try. Again.

The thought that guides the hand is busy drinking tea

Consistency is lacking.

Am I a good poet? What determines one to be good? Is it feedback? Is it technical? Is it perception? Is it self-portayal?

Am I a good writer? Are my thoughts lucid? Are my ideas legible?

Thoughts?

The thought that guides the hand is busy writing code

I get really icked with code at times.

At other times, I don't even have to think about it, and it flows as freely from my fingertips as do words of a poem.

Most people look at coders as if they have robotic souls. That is not true.

I am a coder.
And a poet.

My code is poetry at a higher level.