O wild wind, from whose unseen presence the leaves are driven...

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

[Morning of Thursday, May 27 (day 361)]
[Over at the Miskatonic Café]

I'm mending.

Oh, it's a bitter cut ahand, but it's healing now, and I can carry my own damn weight. Saw to Cain over fixing the stove, and while the coldbox is yet cracked, not as if I can't live without that as'll spoil. And the day's warm and the air's running over and chasing itself like a troupe of yapping hound pups, all tumble and bluster.

Take myself out and down to the Miskatonic, green and gold and strange about the walls and neat window and chair and table within, and the music running. Coffee and the crunch of toast with spices, and a not-particular-crowded morning--guess folk are some minded t'save for Saturday--and I finish my food, leave my coffee by my hand and watch the street and the folk indoors a moment.

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