Laying, determined and waiting, not moving from here without it, no sir. my mind focusing like a bird in flight, mind all tunnel-of-air forcing me to look straight ahead and....quietly quietly quietly, no energy for talking, too much tension for talking, too much weight in the room that hangs around us like a translucent jelly and threatens to keep us stuck to our seats, too much heat, too much heat, too many minds whirring with the same speed of gears, too much want in this cottage. I stare out the window and the land stretches out to the horizon where the sun sets and our conversation has ended and the words flown out the window to grow in the sun, and now they stretch to the horizon with the fields, fields, fields of lavender words and into the distance where the words become too small to read but everyone still remembers what they say. Ah, but nothing ever grows in our fields. Nothing lives there so nothing dies there. Nothing but conversation that comes and goes like the rain and sometimes dissipates upon leaving our lips but then other times it hangs long and turns lavender in the tobacco smoke that fills the cottage and the words fill the cottage, and float out the window, off to the fields to stretch out to the horizon, all that was said. All this is gone by the morning, so rise early to read thru our nights.