black ink spilling over endless fields. afternoon drive on empty country roads in the winter rain; it feels like being in a fish tank and trying to breathe under water. i stop nowhere; i get out of the car; i listen to the waiting: it is thick as mud; wind whispering, trying to lift the heavy sky just another dream higher; a stray beam of light coils around the trees and makes them glow; i shouldn’t have left home even if it felt like dying under the burden of that silence. where can i go: journeys have left me.

early morning the garden was floating in the air - mist and black earth and camellia trees with cold-burnt flowers and all; I thought it was a good sign: it weighed less on her frozen body in its shallow grave. the flapping of wings among branches must have been the voice of god calling her name.