Thomas Tallis in the air as reinterpreted by A kindly looking portly Welshman. Wood stove, cats warming, dog finds a cozy spot. I can’t escape meditations on loss. What I have lost. What have I lost? Wonder, magic, joy, the capacity for contentment. The seventh decade concluding soon, and to all appearances life is good. I ghostwalk mainly, and the effort that takes exhausts. Somehow things get done, and the appearances are upheld. Hollowed out, unable to escape regret, trapped in the life of my creation, I let the Welshman’s sonorous warmth remind me of the loss of that early time of discovery, excitement, hope. The dog stirs, wants attention. I am immobile, detached, stuck in this place. Dante had it; we awaken suddenly into a darkened wood. But he had his Virgil. Fortunate.

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