Grey. Grey morning. Snow coming, I’m told.

I drive carefully, inward-blind. My winter coat hangs heavy as chain-mail around me.

Chapter finished. The words want nothing but the grooming. The words are right. But the idea? I’ll let that be, for now. Nine chapters. The tenth will, must, take care of itself.

I carry a small silence in my head today. Clear and delicate. An invalid’s silence. The ice-crystal painting on the window. The bell jar around my head. A thin atmosphere.  It lets me hear myself. It lets me hear my breathing.

Fragile thing, this. It won’t take jostling. It won’t stand testing. But being suspended in ones’ self. Not such a bad thing. Best leave me to it.

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