Is it the sea you hear in me

Some things. Fragments. 

The dead plant outside my window sounds like mice when it scratches against the glass. The sky is a purple haze. I am grateful for Sundays. When all I need to do is listen to music loud, sing along louder and get some writing done. And drink some coffee in my chilly room to keep warm. 

I need to find more good poets to read. I like Sylvia Plath. All that talk about water and ocean and moon. I am obsessed with the sea. And stars and constellations.

Thistle and Weeds

I feel like I've just been to heaven and back. It's funny how happy small things can make you if you let them. As soon as I entered the Hill Garden after slipping my way down a soggy, muddy pathway, there was an overwhelming sense of calm. The green hills were bathed in the parallel sunlight of the afternoon and there was a sweet smell hanging in the air. It has been dubbed the Secret Garden, but I wasn't alone treading its paths. Mostly it was couples and tourists, from which I am neither. I wasn't the only loner though. There was a gray-haired lady who after seeing me taking pictures, approached me to tell me about a spot I mustn't miss. Down a slope there was a tree heavy with yellow blossoms, and she told me it was her favourite place in the park.

I like places like this best off-season. Cold and wet and deserted. And there are still plants and flowers that you don't know the name of, pushing their way through the ground and up. 

Bring me photographs and souvenirs