An adolescent boy lies badly wounded. There's a long deep gash on the back of his leg; I can see the torn flesh. He's been running and running from his pursuers, but he knows they're getting closer and he's exhausted. He lies panting from the effort on the hard ground, he can't run anymore but he has one last task. He begins to speak, somehow he's communicating with the forces for good, leaving an important message before he's found. As he struggles to speak he's watched from above by a vulture on its perch; sensing the boys weakness and biding its time.
Not a particularly cheerful start to the day after a rotten night. Where on earth does your brain conjure this stuff up from?
Dolores has been a bitch the last couple of days. Tweaking those nauseating nerve strings and depriving me of sleep. Clutching a hot water bottle I have been rotating between sofa, bath and bed. The ideal life some might say. As ever, at times like these it's the little things that are the most valuable. An unexpected handwritten note in the post to say hello 'just because'. And a text from BF to say that her sambuka induced bruising is colouring up nicely.
"You're cheap therapy" I tell her "Yet priceless".
Katy
(What do you Value?)
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