the last hours done? All the time I’ve squandered when I should have been working to win entry to The Library of the Dead, never knowing how deep lies the pool. It might be time’s up already, but I don’t feel that way. We’re all troubled like Katya is in A Dreary Story, I imagine, in the manner of our character, whether or not we’re a negative phenomenom. All thinking things must have doubts, an awareness of their mistakes and misses. It’s a journey back on ourselves, this time of standing off from other humans, closed borders and grounded planes, all but housemates shunned. I can only hope for purpose glimpsed again, a path emerging through the gorse before the haar blows in.
