So much thunder. I am afraid to walk about the house, in case my movement may somehow crack the earth. It is one of those fragile, easily broken mornings, and the world is so filled with wild things I do not understand. I don't pretend to. There is too much. The more I read, the more I sit in on talks of theories and ideas, the more I chatter, is the more I feel as though I am floundering some how, being suffocated in words and words and nothing. It is dense and unsatisfying, and I am still so often thirsty. And then there is all this thunder. Ah to be half-wild, to be as beautiful and as unexplainable and as real as the Bird Lady, with her storm-tossed eyes...
This is only her first incarnation. She's far too interesting for just one piece.
Go be half-wild,