Languid silvergrey pushes me through to the purpose of the day. Looking for my voice, after the babble of Babylon. There should be more than facts and figures or emptied, shell-like words. Aren't words supposed to do what they say: bring light or despair, sublimate by having been turned into form, sublimated themselves by discipline, although the feelings are vibrant & raw. Truthfulness reflecting the sun in the raindrops hanging as heavy buds on the still winter trees, is that what I am looking for tonight? There is fog outside, windows become barriers, sounds seem muted by caution. But caution is only meant to be thrown in the restless wind. Across the street the Christmas tinsel and light promise lighthearted solitude.