The Stars and the Cookie Jar

This is generally a dangerous thing. I was thinking about sociolinguistic ramifications of prayer, but honestly I was writing in my head, too, and I've no idea when I'll be able to get it out of me. It's just, I was watching her hands and the light... It's like being inspired by a particular photograph, even if the photograph doesn't pop visually or whatever; it's the image you hold on to, for whatever reason sticks in your weird little brain.

But this is not a weekend for divine fire of that kind.

So, remind me to write about the boy and the violin. It was just something that should go in a story really.

It was a good night, once we got warm (we ended up sleeping pressed back-to-back, the last time I woke up cognizant, if you want an idea how chilly it was in here: as Puddleglum said, the backs keep each other warm, and then you can have both blankets on top). And it has already been a good morning, in a cosy, introspective, serene way. It's a very serene house.

There's so many more sentences unspooling in my mind, but they all start with if only I could tell you, and they all end in her.