A defaulted week, taken off and stretched out to mean something, although it is Tuesday already and I have done nothing.
This morning I talked of plans for Russia (this is the aim) and my affinity with the people and the books and the buildings. Last night I built an entirely underwater city in my head, flooding the Uranium mines that I saw on television. It was done as a protest or an announcement, I forget which, but it all built up to the novel, which I have fallen out of favour with.
I lose favour when I’m ill or distracted, my temperature is up.
This morning I also spoke of best-in-generation, paying off debt, the opportunities of a small city, abroad as a choice, the cost of a commune, drumming circles and achieving Zen meditation in a Quaker meeting house somewhere near the A197M.
Opportunity needs a home. Moving soon.