A Good Morning for Writing

There are days, mornings mostly, when the words come like dreams. Rainy and misty and grey as cataracts, good days. The words float in from the sides, like from a turn of the century postcard viewer. Very similar, in fact, fully beige in their sepia. Are they memories from dreams? Could it be that simple? Where do they come from?

Enough drifting, the clouds may part.