Almost a month.
Moreso, if you count proper posts rather than snippets.
Much has changed, much remains the same.
I've moved. I'm in a belfry again, with a south-facing window that catches the morning light. It's cozy, and I'm comfortable.
I've scraped the rust off my knee and started running again. It's frustrating, running with baby steps.
My fingers slam the keyboard and new words appear on the screen. CPR on the draft seems to be working, and signs of life emerge. Brick walls and blocks start to crumble. A complete story forms.
The wind howls at night, tearing from the shore, driving torrents and ribbons of sand from the dunes to the sea. It looks alive, shifting like quicksilver, endless, more liquid than the water it races towards. Running through it you believe in banshees. That underneath the rumbling howl something preternatural shrieks with the wind. That they ride the ribbons of sand into the waiting sea, that they blind you with the fine grain and deafen you to make you theirs. The lights of the town never get closer until you make it back. Then you look behind and see the maelstrom. You can't believe you were there.
