Moving on, moving around, a few days here and a week or so there. Packing and unpacking. Settling in to a new situation for long enough to feel settled before picking up sticks again and moving on.
In the flow of constant change there are inevitable casualties. Some days you wake up to no clean socks, others to the realisation that the book you want to read is halfway across town with the small collection of belongings unloaded temporarily from the car. But these sort of things are minor in comparison to the casualty of concentration, a necessity for writing.
The irony, though, is that life itself tends to be full of inspiration when everything’s in flux.