If only there were filling stations for our brains.
Not like a school for “book learning,” but somewhere we can go when we’re only running on fumes. When there’s no fuel to spark an idea. We’re barely chugging along, and there’s no tow truck, no Good Samaritan to give us a push, not even a hill to roll down. Just stranded on the side of the road, without a cell phone signal.
I must have a fuel line leak. Even when I can crank my brain, and move towards the faintest idea, it all goes up in white, noxious smoke.