It’s a cold and blowy evening outside. Layers of cloud in luminous grey, the color drained from the landscape.
All day the wind howled or roared. Occasionally, there was a high-pitched whistle from the sky. It made me shiver.
Sometimes I think November is a world of its own.
An attempt to illustrate a dream I had long ago, described in full here.
I hadn’t drawn anything in a long time but suddenly felt the urge. The mistakes nag at me, but perfectionism is something I need to put aside and anyway I don’t have the energy to do it over.
There was a time when Boo the Cat would climb to the highest point of the roof, king of all he surveyed. He was, we were sure, keeping an eye out for anyone who might bring him food.