Untitled + Barely started

If I wanted to write a story where would I start? Where does anyone start?

So much to say but no way to say it.

What is in a way anyway? Too many forks. But not enough spoons. Where do chopsticks come into it? Do they come into it?

Where do I come into it?

There’s so much to say. So much I want to say. But it’s not coming through me. Where is it coming from? Me. Or you?

The last thing I remember is sitting on a bench in the park. I was reading. My shoes were off because it was a warm day. Not so warm that I was sweating. Warm enough to be relaxing – my body didn’t have to be rigid against the cold.