The pressure to write grows daily. In my somewhat fitful sleep, I dream of writing, getting the perfect plot, seeing the story arc splash across some inner firmament. I wake with wisps and memories of memories. This space is for those times, when to write is to breath fully, to extend and stretch with no kink or stiffness, no caution. Very easy to say. I could introduce myself here, but as yet I feel no need. There is only the blessed facelessness of the electronic page. And while this may go unread by all but this writer, the act of getting it out of my head and into some type of record is my entire goal. Readers and comments would be gravy. This is dedicated to those who push and cajole and threaten and take other extreme measures to bring me to put the words out. You know who you are: DB, JD, SH, and the unnamed ones. These were my original words, written back in September. Since then, it has come to my attention somewhat forcibly that there are no guarantees about the future. In October, my ex-husband/fiancee'/lover person, the above-mentioned DB, took his leave, dying of lung cancer on 10 October. Without my consent or consultation, I might add. This has been a difficult time for me, with the usual effects of grief knocking my life into a cocked hat.