We’re all dreading the day.

It’s like a hurricane’s coming.

We’re warned. We begin making plans, tying down loose ends, backing things up, making contacts.

We know it’s coming; some probably saw the storm form out across the ocean, but were unsure when it would make landfall.

We rush around, some angry, some sad, nearly all slightly depressed as “Ol’ Man Ficlets” withers away, seemingly faster than ever.

Our muses might be a bit panicked. “Where will we express ourselves?” the muses, and their people, wonder. “Where?!“

First, deep breath.

Now, we’ll find a way. We’re not quite sure what it is yet, but we will. There’ll be a ray of sunshine beckoning us to that open window next to the door that had threatened to violently shut.

I think we just gotta remember:

“All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me, my Lord… All night, all day, angels watchin’ over me.“