Up because of that nap yesterday; but I do feel rested and that feels nice.

Water.

I start to dig around for a new scone recipe but decide to just get donuts instead.

Colors of dawn. The moon is bright, less than full but still large in the sky.

Still quiet.

The last time I wrote was exactly a week ago. This needs to change.

What do I need? Macaroni elbows, command strips, bread for BLTs, a plan.

“What’s that tearing sound?” “It’s just me.” “Scrapbooking?” “Vision board.” “That’s what I meant.” I bring the large image of a field full of dried grass closer to me and place upon it the collected phrases that called out to me: “a muse for all times,” “artisans of enlightenment,” “home at last.”

“What does it take to a true Original these days? A willingness to break the rules, of course; a strong sense of personal style doesn’t hurt; but most of all, you need to have a meaningful point of view.” - W Magazine

Sweat collecting at the nape. Sweat cascading over eyelashes, salty drops slipping into the corners of my mouth. The last novel in the collection, “Imago.” I think of how expertly she handles the human condition and the way, through these characters, she reminds us that until we are willing to release ourselves from hierarchical thinking, we will continue to kill one another. Humans are unique in that way; we crave connection and intimacy, true community, but are unwilling to risk (perceived) loss of status or property.