(taken from yesterday's writing at the school gate while waiting for my parents)


it's one of those days - I'm walking and somehow, abstracted from the rest of the world, though it buzzes around me like an industrious beehive. There is a sort of calm, but not peace; there is something in me that wants to get out. And I sing, weaving a beautiful melody, not in quality of voice but only in immediately arranged, drifting pitches, ephemeral and transient, pouring my soul out, only to have it vanish into the open air like a wisp of vapour. And I remember not that which was, but only that it was, and will never be, a work of mine and others' inspiration I can never grasp completely.


Is this what they call a visiting of the muse?


I'm free;


once again.