Too late, too tired.

I feel knackered. This is the first chance I've had to sit down since 6.30 this morning, the first opportunity to be by myself and try to listen only to my own voice, to see what it may say.

There is still so, so much to be said.

I feel time withering behind me, a spark of fire on a fine yarrow stalk, which twists and blackens as the hungry orange rushes its length, leaving nothing but a fine grey ash to be scattered by the wind; I feel myself as a never-seen cavern in the chalk country that is my home, filled with calcified water from the winter rains, longing for light to burst in that the water in me may rush out, that I may stare gasping into day, finally empty; I feel like the sullen impatience of the red kite, lashed to its roost by a dull day of hard wind and cold gobbets of naily rain, desiring nothing more than to raise its russet wings like a banner against the sky, and sail the wind, an omen to scryers; I see a trail of lost opportunities behind me like goods flung from the back of a boat in stormy seas, the occupant not noticing his loss until he arrives at his destination and his cargo, he finds, is gone.

There is still so, so much to be said.