December 11, 2025
Cold. Cold coming under the attic doors. Cold wind rattling everything that can be rattled. Woke in a bad mood. Maybe it was the cold. Fury at the dead solar panels on the roof, the city’s refusal to inspect them, everybody’s refusal to set a time or date or give a plausible excuse. Not that I care. Isn’t that remarkable? I don’t even really care. It’s just that I want something to be under control, to go my way, or at least a reasonable way, rather than wandering about like dust across a desert. Any loose end tied up, any question answered.
Goethe says that those born under Virgo are destined to be writers.
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