November is a cemetery full of candles for the dead, one of them mine. A cold mist of weariness, stifling dreams. A creative flow slowing into a muddy, fetid pool. Snow turning to rain, dancing to backache.
It is also a warm bed, peppermint tea and fantasy novels to carry you off into worlds of spices and love.
It is a burst of fighting spirit, hiking boots and silk shirts.
No comments:
Post a Comment