Stopped writing for a month.
Walked every evening along the cliffs, an hour, two hours a night. It was lovely.
This is the coastal path near where I live.
Sat in the garden most evenings, reading novels and drinking red wine.
Meditated, within my limited gift for calm and introspection.
Silk dreams of flying and glittering eyes.
Didn’t meet friends for coffee.
Don’t know why.
Maybe I just needed to breathe.