an empty book

Today is a day for picking myself up and starting from scratch. I’ve left all my works since January on a table in my college, even my essential black notebook with my essential notes. I have no idea when I may be permitted to retrieve them.

Home from the day job, looking out of my window, I see dandelion fluff filling the air and catching the last light – wandering crazily, fast and slow, lifting and falling, travelling on invisible currents. And I’m tired, and I feel a pull to wander off randomly, perhaps fall asleep in a cobweb. But I’m stubborn. (Someone said I am talented, I said no that’s not it, I’m persistent). I still have my tools. I’ve been carrying the most important ones around with me in a shoe box. Today I made a book with my tools: an empty book; an electric blue sketchbook for drawing the summer sky.

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