I do fret. My mind worrits over everything and nothing. And all the time. When are my quiet times? Sleeping? Not necessarily for that too can be frought with concerns. Dreamful ones, certainly but as real as any living reality at the time. The birds are awake, like me they have been for some time. I hear the clacking of a magpie and the cawing of the rookery of rooks, but the four collared doves, taking their morning perch on top of the roof across from my studio window, are silent. No wood pigeons. Have they flown like the geese? Ah, I think of my drawing today and in the future. I long for it. I long to be doing it. Two more weeks of writing and form filling. So be it.
