It's thundering outside; not the big sky dramatic-shattering and transformative Highveld thunderstorms I grew up with in Johannesburg, but low-level background grumbling that wears a heavy coat of humidity, salt air against a 3D wallpaper of frog song and cricket chirriping, as if I'm perched on a log in a city-sized swamp.
Being a morning person, I'm on my bed at the centrepoint between the window and the cranky old plastic fan, preparing for sleep.
I'm also preparing myself for my Monday journey northwards to Johannesburg; while it's a temporary change of plans, I'm unsure of how long it will until I return, nor of the nature of my new adventure. Nevertheless my heart remains here.
In the interim my full-time is spent grappling with words. And with analysing fear. And self loathing.
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