Mark

Dartmoor. The air blows fresh and cold off the Atlantic, bringing scents of heather, gorse, peat. Rolling hills stretch away to the horizon, green and brown gently blurring. A soft cornflower blue overhead, wispy high cirrus. Skylarks burble happily, the breeze sussurant through bracken.

High summer in Exeter. Lazing by the canal, real ale, real company.

Winter in the mountains, the grandeur of the Scottish Highlands, beauty of Lakeland, sharp ruggedness of Snowdonia. To be alone up here, in this desolation. Snow accreting around one's boots, ice in the lungs.

A darkened room somewhere, red glow. Smoke coils around the lamp and the music wraps me up as conversation dwindles and things drift slowly, time passing... ... to the thought rush and lights growing brighter and gasp as guitars howl and ideas explode inside my head and this... and now....

Keep asking questions. Remain open to new ideas. Be flexible. Choose a path with heart... or choose not to... life can be so strange. My aim? To be happy. Do I ask for nothing, or everything? I can't say.

Continue onward... Moondog

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