Sorry. I don’t quite know what to say on here anymore now. So much goes on in my days, in my life, inside of me, and I don’t know that I feel well to air it. More and more, words seem to be such sharp, busy, imprecise things. I wrote a big, long paper about that once. In hindsight, sort of defeated the purpose now, didn’t it. As I age I come more silent. Nonetheless, I have committed to talking here. And if I must, contrary to popular opinion, I believe talk of the weather has merit.

The sun has been so good for me. I am sure it heals the heart. After it’s been for ten days when it goes away for a time, I find myself more apt to bear it. My body feels increasingly better, too. Riding my bike, each morning and night, my hips, a steady and stronger rotation. The wind washes over me for this hour each day and I feel peaceful. It finally rained this afternoon and the air smelled so musty sweet it made me want to go the gallery and sit in the garden. It was locked, so I sat by the fountain. It began to rain again. The palm trees are so kind and I feel the blood warming different parts of my body, constantly. I have known sweetness, known it inside. It is only for this that I have the ability to feel sad. Winter staring back at me from the bottom of my tea cup. I have so many expectations. Pretty marbles in a mason jar. And there is nothing I can do but examine each one over and put it back again. Grow older. I don’t know how to move forward and less and less do I believe in this. And maybe that is really it. So I have decided to believe in magic instead. Other people say they know it is real, but I can only feel it sometimes. Nothing can be said either way to convince me. But if I am quiet enough I am sure I can hear the blood in my veins. It is enough.