It has been very difficult writing here at home. For me, there must almost be no one around, not even myself, for the best seeds to manifest in text. There must only be the page, and where the page is must be silent if the ushering of soul is to be "photographed," written ("captured" is not the apt term, for technically what is being ushered has already been "captured," for I am living what I write; what has been written by me has come from me as a part of my life.). And there must be space, for prayer, for thought play itself out in the ether of the room and return as light to the mind. I honestly do not know what my writing has become; I am only certain that what will play a prominent part in what my self wants to refine into verse will be some quality of water, or air, or both.