The light in my bedroom this morning is the sweep of brushes over the head of the snare drum. I am up too early again, eyes open to vague grey. I spent a decent portion of last week running around like a fawn with its head stuck in a pail, running blind, quivering with fear. I had hoped it would be over with by now.

Fear has been on the back burner, then the front, then setting my dress on fire for several weeks. I have my usual sources, I know them, see them, but recently they have arrowed in from so many different directions I have no room to turn. I lose faith in myself, I shame myself with my flailings, I stop looking for something beautiful every day.

Well, and that would truly make the world look grey, right there. Inside my inky universe, where a spoon is my lover, the sidewalk is a palette, street lights are a ladder, I have neglected my precious collection, forgotten for a moment how to carefully curate for joy. So today, despite ashy heaps of tired snow, a heavy flat sky I will look for something charming or graceful or hotly alive. If I capture it, I will tell you.