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Entangled.
Branching out. Below ground, another matrix of roots entangled with the mycelium. The tree doesn't feel entangled.

The Fridge.
I tend to use it like a cold oven.
To make and keep veggie stew for a day or two, other times, paella, ratatouille, and occasionally soup. I'll probably be making more soups through the winter. And Jude tends to make a fruit crumble each week, we have a freezer draw full of gathered blackberries and apple.

Morning walk.
More like a wander, somewhere above a setting moon, and beyond, a million suns. Some tunes play on my AirPods, as I turn into Boundary Road, a song, Talking Heads, Walk It Down, from the mid 1980s, the album, Little Creatures. The words, when written look disparate, without continuity, without story, without narrative - the feeling of rhythm, tone of voice, brings this collage of thoughts and feelings together into being, something that begins and ends, and can be held, in mind, lightly, and now, as I write these words still plays, in a faded way.

Books
I took a bag of books to the charity shop yesterday. Books are heavy, I took just half a dozen. I'm beginning to think about the books that sit on my book shelves in different ways. Some I'll regret letting go of, others I'll forget. These thoughts and feelings of regret and forgetting. I have a pile of books I've put to one side. I'll sift through them, as though in a bookshop, and make some notes from each one, maybe a photograph, and then let it go, on it's way, like a note in a bottle, to others places, to other hands.

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