Not possible I say to myself, to settle my chaos. To gather it all, to Make Sense. I can only feel it, like in a dream. Words can be useless in times like these. Like a lot of dreams, I cannot remember in a way to explain, but there was a going. Here, evidence of that. What if art is simply evidence...?
Then, looking back, finding story told. Yes, that is why I continue, so there might be crumbs. Maybe simply evidence of thoughts caught. This glossary thing is helping me speak my own languge.
Nest of Days is on the table, maybe becoming bigger, Grow is by the sewing chair waiting for me to cross a red line, and this one, folded over at the top, because it is too tall, hangs on the wall to remind me it is all A Balancing Act. It needs to be somewhere else, it is and will remain a curtain.
And for the record, I am, officially, a Nana.