Hmm. Skritch skritch skritch.

I feel beached. I could not meet Illia in Charlotte; I cannot see the green dry vales of the town of my birth, and I cannot spend this beltane as I wish; in some skiey, wheat-filled field, surrounded by dusky skin and soft linen skirts and blouses with the laces half-undone. My womb rebells; not that I would satisfy it's maternal urgings even were I inclined to try.

Calculated risks. Caution. Prudence. Dear Prudence. I wish...

Oh never mind what I wish. Damn useless wings.

I want a way.

At least I can rest assured -- the invisible ones will have sapient celebration.

Bully for them.

:)

<<agé chose>>

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