It is Friday, come at last. Though the portents are against it, I might just make it through. Beauty lives at home today, looking for protection. All the signal fires are lit. The pickets are restless and so too the patrols. If I look I will find myself in the expression of my devotions. This is what I do. What I do, I do for you, this being most exquisitely, most excruciatingly myself.

Everything urges escape, but flight, much as it calls to me, has never answered for me. I must stand as I am, where I am, living into the effortless, and then... then...