When your hands are empty and your mind isblank, and a sense of purpose eludes you, there’s always a scrap of paper like thisone to fill with scratchings and stain with words. I wonder if this is how those ancient cave drawings started,the graffiti of boredom? Somethingto fill the nights and to gaze at with pride on long shifts tendng the winterfire. I’m tryng to tend my innerflame, which isn’t guttering but is struggling to find good tinder. So I write, I scratch, I stir theembers in hope that a blaze will spring up again, as it has many times before. I’m not snuffed out yet. I can still feel a glow down below.