Fog-breath, poetry.

Got home from the launch a few hours ago (with a stop at Max Brenner for some very appreciated hot chocolate) and have been in that odd, quiet mood where you just want to sit and stare and kind of let your mind unwind. I think perhaps if I had of had whisky or something on hand, I would have poured a glass, but alas, the cupboards are bare of anything of the sort, so I sat with water, on my step, and looked up at the very few stars.

After a while, for whatever reason, I started thinking of Plath. Yes, perfect. I went and found my much-loved copy of her collected works, and flicked through my favourite poems, reading them carefully and passionately to myself. Every word of them is absolutely perfect, I think. It gives me a warm little glow of satisfaction to read them. I almost want to sit with a pen and pull them apart, like I did in year 12, throughout my degree. I miss that, a lot. But I still have my texts, and I still have the ability to go back and steep myself in the poetry.

In fact, it makes me feel very creative. Perhaps tomorrow, when I'm not quite so exhausted, I'll write for a while. It feels like I should.