I left the house this cool grey wet afternoon and was promptly aroused by the seeming freshness of the air. I breathed deep, buoyed by it, and by the lingering afterglow of another (almost bi-weekly) fine dinner at the home of the Eloquent Potter. We ate well of course, and drank the passable wines I scrounged, and explored his very exciting 12-book series which tackles deep existential questions, and more importantly we bared ourselves; our most pertinent personal issues and were then of great comfort to one another, and through no perfunctory sympathy but through genuine sensitivity and honest logical insight. He was thrilled with the fresh flowers and I’m happy that he was, and happy for the inspiration he reliably imparts on me.
I breathed deep and wondered at this freshness as I trod over mats of wet tattered leaves; wondered at all this decay and the seeming incongruence between decay and freshness. But all impressions are relative I suppose, and I suppose that if decay were indeed a notable component of this invigorating aroma, that perhaps it is because it masks things of a worse nature... Whimsical thoughts these, but as I head out to the the write-in; a pre-NaNoWriMo prep-in to be more precise, I am okay with that.
Hello Blog. I’m sorry to have been such a stranger. I have better intentions but promises would be foolish.
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