Wednesday One Hopeful

I used to be a woman who wrote in cafes.

That was before The Flood.

Now I stand there at the entrance in my thick overcoat and huge scarf that smell like Indian cuisine, but I no longer feel like I am expected, or welcome.

I write at home now.

The Giant’s woman came by the house today.

To do some yelling, I presumed.

But I didn’t let her in, so she just violently stamped on the snow-covered flowerbeds, where the wild pansies had grown.

What a bitch, I said to The Swift, it’s not like I wanted him to eat the flowers.

The bird was for once silent.

I added wood into the stove and filled the kettle with fresh water. The smell of the fire combined with damp feathers, but I said nothing, I knew he would want to dry himself in peace. I wasn’t a bad smell, really.

Päiväkirjan kirjoittaja istuu jalat harallaan penkissä.

Kynät seisovat reippaina purkeissa, paitsi ne joita hän sillä hetkellä käyttää.