The ebbs and flows of writing, the moon pulling, letting go, illuminating, darkening, reflecting that fire in the daylight sky. No time, the light appearing each day, things happen, the magic of writing, in so many ways, each day. This writing, a reflection of thoughts and feelings, not the thought in itself, an appearance of thought. This thinking, an appearance of movement of thought over time. I look back through this notebook, the words 'arranging' / 're-arranging' appear quite a few times. I'm still going though a sorting stuff phase, a letting go of things, letting things move on, back into the world - a sort of food for the compost.
Ebbs and flows, an articulation of rhythms each day, on the beach, in the sand, in the sky, through the clouds, the wind, this writing, a page, a pen. And a cup of coffee.