Tavener on CD.
Green-gray rain outside, rather beautiful, rather Irish. Except for the sunflowers, whose bed I have not yet dug, all I wanted to get into the ground is in the ground.
Still capable of collapsing into grief over the loss of Circe. Something is unresolved about all that. I see her little ghost here and there, pet it, speak to it, so if she wants to stay a little while longer she will know she is welcome.
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