I’m often conscious of the fact that some of the words that seemingly come out of my head aren’t really mine at all.
It was often like that with the stories. Many times I felt I was merely watching them unfold, listening to the commentary, and then typing them up. And that post I made last night about beauty. It just popped into my head and asked to be written down. I don’t even know what it really means.
This evening I was sitting in my garden with a coffee after dinner. The air was warm, still and quiet. The veiled sun was throwing a backlight onto some wisps of smoke rising from a bonfire somewhere down in the valley bottom. I felt drowsy, and suddenly heard my voice saying
‘Where are we going, Jeffrey? And who’s coming with us?’
I wasn't quite sure who was asking, and I didn’t know the answer to either.
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