My mind floats and bobs, gets caught in eddies in the stream, bumps up against a rock at the edge and attracts a discarded plastic shopping bag which clings, flapping in the water and then floats off...
Three months by the calendar. Rocks and rapids. White water swallowing the sound of my voice.
Trapped in the broken boat of my own thoughts.
Emerging. I begin to wind paper and cloth into beads. And to gather silk cocoons.
It is the start of a voice.
