Over the last week or two I've been trying to find a cafe I can write in during the afternoon. Somewhere I can usually find a seat, and write for around half an hour. At this time of year I have to go out and take in some daylight every day. Mornings are dark when I go out. It's the light of day that I need, when I don't get enough of it I begin to feel melancholy. Melancholy is okay, but too much melancholy can easily take over my day.
In the afternoon cafe I write 'the past in boxes the future in front of me a blank page'. I think of turning over a leaf, a movement. I look up and see the world. The other world. I write about reality and winds of change. I think of the ways I characterise my thinking; this ecology of thinking, my landscape of consciousness. And decay. And the world we inhabit, this biosphere. A life to cherish even though I might not understand. I guess it's just a feeling, in the city, to feel my own heart beating.