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I sit with a cappuccino and croissant this morning. I had a late night getting to bed and overslept. I decided to come out without breakfast or notebooks and the walk was short and wet, and it was okay.

I listened to some of my old recorded piano practise yesterday evening. I tend to use the music I've played, the photographs I've made and writings I've written as ways of looping back on myself now and then; forms for contemplation and reflection.

Over the last month or two I have dismantled  the shelves that hold my books and things. Many of the books and things I have taken to charity shops on my bike and the my notebooks and writings and photographic prints I've put into a dozen or so smallish, (A4 ish) transparent boxes, which have colourful lids. I've still got three boxes of old records which I hope to get round to letting go of, but they have a different resonance.

Over the next period of time, months, year (?) I hope to sort through each box, choose to keep the odd bit of paper and let the rest float away, I might even let some pieces be torn and literally float away, probably on the River Thames at Richmond, up-stream, down-stream, or just sinking into the mud and silt and becoming part of the decay and mulch.

Another day opens up, I look up and see the Christmas lights twinkling on the hotel Christmas tree which is sitting in the driveway to the entrance. A couple of people with umbrellas, slightly more bustling than usual, I'm later. I have a short conversation about bread and water.

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