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Jude brings a punnet of blackberries back from her morning walk through Regent's Park.

I cycle Richmond Park again, still vaguely thinking about acres, land, Earth, and warming, warnings, whether, and weather.

I look back through my notebook, I see I nearly always begin the page with single word; a semblance of movement, of hand, of mind, of picking up a stick or stone, no reason, not knowing.

I think with photographing I'm more intuitively aware, but my 'intuition' isn't always working particularly well, so I snap some pictures.

This morning I looked back over my previous notebook, these words, associations, nothing particular in mind, just a landscape of consciousness. Mulch.

From these layers of mulch some things may grow, I breathe, but I don't hold my breath for too long.

Things come to mind, this play of entities, this play of words, sticks and stones.

The play of my day can sometimes become the play of my day.

I sail past my time, here, in the hotel, my  glass and cup, now empty, songs, asides, I sidle along.

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