ivory lines lead

I feel like writing postcard stories lately. I feel like sitting outside in the sun, writing postcard stories. There are two problems with this scenario:

1. It is -20 degrees outside, and frankly, not very sunny.
2. I have writer's block.

I can feel creativity bubbling up inside me, but it has nowhere to go. I'm just thinking over one sentence that I'd like to use; chewing it up and spitting it out and trying again. This is the sentence (in one of its multiple variations):

Your words go down easy: they just leave your lips and slip into my own, and I can roll them around and really feel their weight before letting them in all the way.

I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. I think I could be folksy, if I tried. I could run around quoting Simon and Garfunkel, learning simple songs with sweet melodies on my guitar, drinking herbal tea and trying to be bohemian. In addition to the folk music, I've been reading poetry written by musicians. Leonard Cohen, Billy Corgan, those kinds of people. The kind who write about longing and loneliness in the middle of the night. The kind who mark their time with cigarettes and ashtrays and empty bottles of what once was red wine, but is now the blood that travels through their veins.

Death Cab for Cutie wrote a song called Lightness that talks about the heart as a river and the brain as a dam:

Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And I am the fish who can't reach the core.

I guess that's all I have to say, right now.