The dark is a distant thing. Never empty. Always full. Of scenes to be written. Nouns, verbs, adjectives. Marked by a million intentions: the trees in the window, out in a field, left on a terrace. Strung with lights -- some twinkling, some still.
I've been on so many trains in the last 52 days. Never has one felt long enough for my mind to absorb the dark, emptied of its thoughts and ready to arrive.