Still here. Stuck. I think about you and it makes me want to write. It makes me look up. I start asking questions, screaming into the æther, sentences that seem to make sense, but then again only to me. No one or everyone can hear me. I’m moving in spins again, laughing in a loop, your little ballerina. Like a strawberry-chocolate mushroom. A fruity truffle, sweet, decadent.. Where was I that time? Lost, elsewhere, gone. In a canoe that isn’t mine, walking in the bay fog again. For April I guess.