November 1997

The creative flow is akin to large dam breaking and the water roaring through. Sometimes you just get a big river, other times you flood a small (or large) town. You have to let it out. Picture a large cat pacing restlessly in a cage. This force cannot, WILL not, be denied.

The notes of the guitar (his guitar) fall over me like drops of rain in a storm. I am awash with memories, some good, some bad, all bittersweet. He was good, Anoth. An naoimh. I miss him. Tarantula. It carries me, rocking me gently, softly. What's a witch to do? I am. I can be. I WILL be. Time's closing in. Tarantula. I have to be with my own kind. I have to be alone. On my own...kind...alone. I need to be needed. I need to be self-sufficient. Independant. Older. Ogham.

Oh, An naoimh, how you have centered yourself in me. I bite. The face I wear is not my own. It is borrowed. Alas! To be free and flying! I leapt. I took him with me. I pushed him over the edge.

Lithe. Graceful. Cat-like. Especially cat-like.