December 10, 2009
I rest with a heavy heart, trudging through sulky days with empty hands. To sleep and then back to wake, empty hands. Soon, more firm forms will transform my life into something never experienced before. It will be a plant in a pot, living but unable to spread the joy for life. I predict to be in the shallows of time, spent in leisure, and must commit despite a certain lack of appeal. More books, more time, more wasting.
Things will be fine, going on as they always do. A new winter day will bring a little more snow, a little more cold, and a stronger sense of the importance of contrast.
I lock myself in this white room, empty handed.