No music, no TV. Just the sound of the cold wind through the hollies under the big window, the sun blazing through.
With an empty mind, my hand kept finding the most amazing bits, shreds and pieces.
Grace reminded me how the smallest bits of cloth have a magic and integrity all of their own. As if to say, "I'm the one and only piece in all existence just like this. What will you make of me?'
I've been busy working on a short story since Christmas and finding that fiddling with words can be every bit as compulsive as working with cloth. You move a piece from here to there and there is a whole different tale. The unintended consequences never end. Stopping and taking a stand can be difficult. Pleasing the masses? Impossible.
Pleasing myself? Who better.
Other thoughts today are with Grace and little old Cinche, now winding down her journey on this plane.