Over

I am a curious wanderer, gathering up memories like bundles of down wood. I warm myself against the cold of uncertainty with recollections of sweet-hearted friends, distant lovers, wild places. Some of these find themselves pressed onto pages in stories, some find themselves treading the boards in plays; some even spread out in a novel or two. Some call me gypsy, some call me slightly crazy; my family think I'm feckless. None call me boring.