I’m wide awake, it’s (very early) morning. Woke at a time before it seemed, dreams over and mind clear. Hours and hours of the night, with music, clarity coming, lost, let go and returning; a strange rhythm not of my doing, its own cycle. Thoughts not formulated, generated, sparked in a mystery. Nothing to think about and no place for doing so. The night is a terrible and wonderful time, perspective shot.

iPod: Bukowski comes on, a boil on his ass. He, too, awake, some other time, place. And The Streets ‘everything else is just borrowed’ looping its way toward dawn and yoga and work. The hollow feeling grows and grows and grows and you want to call your mother but you can’t because you seem to have left an important part of your brain in a field in Hampshire. All right. Any important parts of my brain are being returned, coming home, and feeling good in a world that’s looking decidedly not.

Outside, a pheasant is started startled in the still, black, still black, trees.