By which I mean the late rising moon of November shimmering in low cloud.

The Sunday was all about prepping for the Monday. In the midst the Matria finally called back and I heard some of the reasons it’s been so quiet in the east. The problems seemed so familiar and I started to wonder if everyone is in the same boat to a greater or lesser extent. Except of course for the people on the radio, whose lives march on in blissful witless disregard of the war being waged on the ground around the outskirts of Tulsa, Sacramento, Augusta; PTSD the order of the day.

I speak to you from a dream state with a renewed hybrid vigor for the fight. There is less of an impulse to describe it in woolly spilt detail, but that will pass. I note the rhythms tidal of the practice of whatever this is.