Cowering behind the convenience of wintery dismal - too many ideas colliding, too much left un/done. Between foggy sunrises and wine-induced sleep patterns, things get lost midway, irretrievable. Shrinking away from decibel-madness, stunted by the consistency of routine. I dream of fresh croissant and good strawberry jam, long black, cane chairs.
To plod and plough. From start to no end. The heavy clouds moved to the push of the wind - I marvelled. As I drove past bare branches, and even barer expressions. The thoughts raced as the motor decelerated. Eyes straight, but faraway. I think of DH Lawrence's The Odor of Chrysanthemums, looking through the timber venetians. And instantly this brings back to mind even more.