Since a man named Douglas Borhn washed the second story windows I have been de-cluttering in wildness. I trashed my old journals--10 years worth. Some went to be recycled. Into what I wonder--paper cups? napkins? stationary? Could it be that people I have never met are drinking out of my dreams? wiping ketchup off their mouths with paragraphs of my broken heart(s)? writing to their grandmothers on my tales of love affair? The non-recycled went directly to the trash. I do not care if pages fly down the street or if pieces are picked apart by crows at the dump. I was struck by the sun after Mr. Borhn scraped mud and bird droppings off the leaded 1930 panes--bright white sun kissed everywhere in my rather cluttered studio where creativity oozes from pen and brush. Now only what is shows through as done or half baked. White paper rustles. In the slashes of sun rays streaming through I am writing new words. I'm day by day. Each day too precious to mourn words not mine anymore.