This is where I am now, upon this page. There is only me here.
In my mind, my voice is high and very clear. Almost like a reed fluting. I mean a flute reeding.
It is the wind through the reeds at the side of my garden pond.
I have some grass in my hand – a blade, that’s it – and I have learnt how to blow through a folded copy of it – a loop.
It sounds high.
No. It is – no, I won’t say that. I don’t want to spoil these high-fallutin’ thoughts.