I’m going to walk later for the wind is raging out there. And there is rain. He persuaded me to put it off till later. If he hadn’t woken I would’ve gone out. The wind unsettles that little animal inside of me. So I am at my desk, writing this early. And I wrote the other, yesterday. I’m never sure of what I write (or indeed of what I draw). I just do my best. It is all I can do. He says it is enough. And I must trust in that.
She writes and tells me of having to begin packing up her house. I can read the heartbreak and fear in between the lines. It is too much. And to do it alone. I want to help but know not how.
Oh, these wee small hours are a bugger. And I’ve missed being out there, drawing. It’s the energy, you see, and all that life.
