Abito in un vecchio palazzo,

passando il tempo dentro le parole.

January is a dark time of year in this valley between ocean and mountain, notwithstanding the street lights festooning the rain covered pavement or the stars sparkling in the back-drop of darkness amid tall reaching mist covered trees.

As I sit at my writing table, I am distracted by a flicker in my peripheral vision, and the Moon, obviously irritated, clears his throat and reminds me that he too is a contributing factor in shimmering-up the night. ‘Brilliantly dazzling as usual Mr. Moon, and do, please forgive the inadvertent exclusion.’

Now, what was I saying? Ah yes, ever since King Winter arrived this year, I have not been privy to any weird nocturnal drama, such as critters coming down from the mountain in search of food (thanks be to Heaven). But my imagination, however, does lend itself to ponder its imagery. Beyond this, other happenings have impressed themselves upon me since beginning my last journey, all of which, I suspect, have unconsciously embellished in the telling that now I can no longer be sure what belongs to this continuum and what is narrative flourish........

But then,

it doesn’t really matter.

Does it?

illustration by

Jean-Baptiste Monge

.

.