Dry monk bread and dry monk cheese, bone filled milk. S. singing blue. The blue bright morning is clouding. I am about to trawl my memory, my emotion. Put myself in her hands. Metaphorically and physically, both. I’ve come to the end of a previous life. It ended in a black tirade and then, right there at the end, on a note of (unconvincing) optimism.
Inaction, breathlessness, fear of decision.
Show me the mountain, draw me the mountain, again and again and again, until I understand what a mountain is and means to me. Draw it, draw faces onto it. Whatever. In drawing it (start) (to) (climb) (it). Higher. Leaving low altitude fogs and bedlam behind, the procrastinations, the strangling vines, the treelines. Ascend to where the rock is exposed and bled out, where there are no shadows. Stop. For a while. Take a moment to talk to the dead. Look around, survey the detailed map which is now visibly drawn on the face of the earth. Make lists.