Wake from intricate dreams, long narratives woven through the mundane into wonder, there's no sense to be made. Mornings are dark again now, for a brief moment you fear winter is here, that January still has its withering hold on you but the forecast says mild temperatures and by the time you have finished your coffee the sky is light, the fear has passed.
I'm writing a new story. By which I mean the pages are blank; the actual tale rests in my spine, moves in and out of my body with every breath. It's strange to make concrete that which haunts you in silence. Like picking a cancer out of your flesh and turning it over in your hands, examining it out of curiosity and thinking it's much smaller than I imagined. This is a blessing.
All writing is a blessing, don't forget.
Not everything in life is there to pay the rent.
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