Now I’m alone again. The wind howls outside, driving flurries of snow against the windows; the screens of my study flap fitfully in the wind, coated with fine snow. I’d watched the snow blow across the fields until it obscured the treeline, and then darkness began to steal in as it always does in winter, deepening into blue, then indigo, then blue-black the color of the ink in my fountain pen, then finally sank into full darkness, so that even the streetlights must struggle to shine fitfully in the face of the storm. A good night not to go anywhere, not that I have anywhere to go. Time to put my back to the wall and figure some stuff out. Congregation by the Afghan Whigs is the perfect album right now — my wound-tight, antsy brain instantly identifies with the jittery paranoia and scrabbling reaching for the truth, whatever it might be. Need to listen to the silence, decide where this is going; and to watch — always to watch. Eternal vigilance is the price of the fractured mind, but it repays everything it costs, and more. It’s hard to learn how to be alone with yourself, to listen to yourself and really hear and not have your essential voice drowned out by the senseless ephemera of everyday life…I knew the trick once, but it seems I’ve forgotten it, in the hurly-burly of what everyday life has become, and so it must be good for me to sit and listen in an empty house to the wind howling outside, waiting for — what? Need to decide, so that I can move forward. There’s almost a kind of wild joy in being so alone, a feeling that this has to be good because there’s no alternative — now I can finally clear away the cobwebs and really see… I’ll let you know what transpires.