#almost done!

Ayyyy,here’s Sarah!

I'm Writing You A Story: Wanderers

Time as objective reality has never made much sense to me. It's what happens that matters. How can minutes and years, devices of our own creation, mean the same thing to gnats and to cedars? Two hundred years is young for the trees whose tops this morning are hung with mist. It's an eyeblink of time for the river and nothing at all for the rocks. The rocks and the river and these very same trees are likely to be here in another two hundred years, if we take good care. As for me, and that chipmunk, and the cloud gnats milling in a shaft of sunlight—we will have moved on. If there is meaning in the past and in the imagined future, it is captured in the moment. When you have all the time in the world, you can spend it, not only going somewhere, but on being where you are. So I stretch out, close my eyes, and listen to the rain.

Gold Dust Woman chapter 7 mood board

This is so hilariously worded like a domestic dispute. Poor husband, his wife won't let him murder the king.