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T, I'm still in an odd place about yesterday. I'm not even sure how to work on it. I feel stuck. Just like I didn't know how to talk about it yesterday, now I don't know how to think. And as always seems to happen when I'm thoroughly stuck, my mind starts spinning fantasies, which is weird, because I don't feel that way about you at all... Sigh.
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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