I don't even know about today. It's like the inside of a damp concrete box with a square hole in it leaking light wrung out three times from a dishcloth someone far away used to wipe out the fridge. I'm prickled with sleeplessness and undirected anxiety and old, old botherations, the sheets of the world all rucked up around my toes.
First new moon of the year. Year of the horse. Dark of the moon, dark clouds, dark collars up around everyone's throats, just plain dark.
Last night I went out to dinner with a friend of mine and drank soup made from things which grow under the ground, dark ocean things, whiskey afterwards furling black peat smoke. A sudden clout of winter, my ears roundly boxed. Things that have already happened reappear around corners and wait to be counted.