In this world, friday is a quiet night. The child, Isla, is in the care of her grandparents and wrapped up in the excitement of her cousin's birthday party tomorrow. The woman, Vicki (we'll call her), sleeps.
I sit in a world that in the quiet lighting and excellent music, currently John Martyn's One World, speaks of tranquility and even joy. But that is not enough for me. WHERE ARE THE FUCKING QUESTIONS?
I ask myself and only, for now, get spurious answers.
I will return
Ah
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You travel through it all, things of all kinds, imagined and visiting, cross your path. So I put excerpts and incidental flashes of my stuff here.
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