It is deep in the heart of winter. The days are leeched of colour. I can rarely look up for fear of slipping but when I do, it is all black lace against the ashen face of sky.
There is a predictable pattern to my moods, I am not exalted I am not depressed, but it feels like I am waiting again. Waiting for inspiration, for energy, for a sense of purpose and epiphany. I don't ask for much.
