I saw it from my studio at about 1.45 am. It was huge, burning yellow and orange. A half-shape, not neat, but ragged and blurred. It burnt through the black, scorching. A hot place. Far away.
Ah death. I think about it, I write about it, I hear about it, I see it and I encounter it. We all do, but I am alert to it, watching. Waiting. I still walk to that cottage, that house on that island as I fall to sleep. Last night I saw another bedroom. It was on a lower floor. The bed made up. A big bed that filled the whole space, virtually. The landing outside was higher, the bed and the bedroom was slightly beneath me as I looked in. The duvet cover was floral. Pretty. Light. A little old-fashioned. Daylight was coming in from somewhere. A windo, that I couldn’t see? I climbed farther. My bedroom, the white one of my imagining was on a higher floor still.
