Day 167. What are the conditions to create?

Day 166. Outrageous runaways writing way up high.

Day 165. The things I anticipate are often the most disappointing.

Day 164. I depart for England in a week, and I hope there is an answer waiting for me in the mountains of Whales, though I've yet to ask a question.

Day 163. I’m nine hours ahead of where I previously was, and the rhythm of the sea never stops.

Day 161. Captive imagination, the manifestation of vague longing.

Day 159. Are dreams any more shocking than what we witness in the waking world?

Day 158. I wonder at the quiet effort of it all.

Day 157. Atlantic eyes lined with gold and copper wink-wink-wink.

Day 156. There was no other choice; only alternatives to what they all felt must be done.

Day 155. The Decorum of Daughters.

Day 154. A dozen flies have gathered on my table. They are worse dining guests than the little spotted cat who joined me for eggs.

Day 152. It’s been raining for days within the privacy of my orange and rose boudoir.

Day 151. Clack-clack-clack went her palms at the water. I kept waiting for a spark.

Day 150. The past is young-blooded and broken by the shards of memory used like kitchen knives.

Day 149. I’ve hidden in hieroglyphs—in blotted ink and iris—for decades.

Day 148. She fights for her independence with orange lipstick and rings as thick as a knuckle.