She's been mouldering, quietly churning over old thoughts.

And then the release. Anger! There you are! I have found you and I'm holding tight for now. You are so new to me, but the agony has been released to you. Fury, of storms brewing deep down in dark places I'm not sure I had.

Retch, retch, retching in a cold sweat waking from pictures and sounds I buried under the storm. Fury is moving and stirring and pushing the storm up and out.

Storms pass quickly. I cannot hold anger. The mouldering lost its valor and is now a sallow pink. Fury rolled into quiet tears and slower tearing and folding, not so much thunder. Only murmurings.

Night after night I curl up and read poems aloud to myself. Often times I write them down and put them in envelopea, but there is no one to address them to.

I am home on Humboldt. I think if only I can find the words for what is aching, it would release. Some articulation would puncture the wound and let it drain. I've no damn words. I've had none for weeks.

Slow, slow, slow. Please heart be slow.