That was the day I almost got lost in the swiftly falling darkness at Jurmala train station, part-time watching John lose his final battle - I clicked at the phone buttons, but the statistics vanished rapidly at a scroll of the page. Everything backwards. That day I failed to recognise the word 'vehement', not seeing its revered simplicity behind the blue and red colouring of my new aim. I've never been as amazed at how everything changes. And on that day, in almost winter, when post-Christmas weather was scavenging for camomile flowers, I found out about the poet who saved Joan d'Arc, for he loved her documented eyes, or the two poets disclosing the Big Bad Wolf's erotic cravings for the Red Hood. Poetry is scarier than I tried it, in its iridescence - I am not the menacing one yet, stories that I came up with. That was the year people I aspired to murder came back from holy places. That was the year I had a sore throat twice, and learned which of the parts infected break the voice most. That was the year I found the country to be alone in, learning that on coming back there is a small festive season unrecognised. Learning that we should now live from pain for pain, for hurt to hurt, and sometimes kiss, turning deliberately seawards. There is more time on these hands, and my dream is going to come back for me. Not now, and Gods-know-when-later. But if to rest is the last thing I am inclined to do, and if I am to wait, I may. I must.

Bonne année 2018