Black, ragged-feathered and portentous. Odin's bird ploughs a furrow through the sea-grey sky. Straight as a singular dice cast. Inexorable course, written as I watch.

Pausing in mid-beat, casting a dark marble, glistening orb. Line of sight. Fixed, I am already past. The corvid flys on, running from the morning sun.

I take another draw, wash it down with a swallow of industrial strength.

And later, much later.

When the sun has passed its zenith.

I exchange unexpected confidences with a sculptor. Why his marriage is on the rocks ... ironic for a man whose spoken language is stone. Why mine failed in the end. Clichés, we conclude, that describe quotidian dramas played to an audience of one. He describes his place in time as the razor's edge, still unsure where the cut will occur. A Romance for a romantic being written ... a clay maquette for a life to be lived in stone. I leave feeling closer to this man. Something real has been said.

And now, as the sun sets ... Leonard tells me how there is no cure.

There ain't no cure

There ain't no cure

There ain't no cure for love.

... I think of the strange and tumultuous road ahead for him. He has met someone who has 'unlocked his heart' but he wants to save his marriage ... plus ca change, toujours le meme chose ... After many years of shutting down his emotions, of reduction of expressed desire, to maintain peace and harmony ... the cat is not only out of bag, it is giving tango lessons on the rooftops under a full moon ... an emotional No U Turns sign in flaming letters in the night sky. For what it is worth, I say there is no going back ... a future can be written any way but it will never be the past re-created. The world has moved on.

Welcome to the world of Shiva, destruction breeds creation.