It is only half past five, but it is like midnight outside. It is empty and still all around, and my daughter is lingering in her afternoon nap. I am startled today by early darkness. I did not properly notice its coming yesterday when we set the clocks back. Perhaps because I am alone, I have given it the chance to envelope me with a forgotten but familiar quietness. In this warm autumn, it is the first sign of coming winter. The hustle and blur of September and October seem to have floated to a soft landing in this gentle blackness.
This gentle blackness - a space for thinking and remembering and hoping and longing and being.
So, in this space I set out to begin to this little journal. A place for my thinking and remembering. A logbook of my hopes and longings. A record of my being.
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