Webs of hair thin black lines creep from the letters. The ink I use is too heavy and the pages bleed, smudges abound and my hand cramps as the day's happenings come back. I sift through what matters and doesn't, what doesn't matter but amuses and what might matter later, when I think about it. Down it goes. The narrow roads, the hills, the water, the endless sheep, the horny does and hornier stags, the endlessly changing sky, the vast expanses, the towering mountains appearing from the clouds in silence. The teasing sun, occasionally shining a spotlight on some deserted stretch of nowhere, drawing our eyes towards yet more indescribable beauty.
It's all there, in my swollen notebook - over a thousand miles of notes, snippets of tales, beginnings and endings.