There have been many many months of nothing. Not nothing, per se. But nothing to say. Nothing to say to you. And now in the tiny ancient steps of a little old woman, slowly and discretely stepping the steps of a very slow floor polisher, I feel something.
Something under my feet. Something to be polished. Polished off, and replaced with action. Nourishment. Assimilation and alchemy.
The thing is, that in a children's book, you can't have him steal the saw.
