I can't see the mountain and it can't see me: Friday night reflections in the cottage panes / rain against the roof and windows / looking across at the neighbour's home and the street lamp / while the ghosts of the past peer over my shoulder: happiness is red wine, musty books & attic blues (I'm on top the world).
I'm in bed now, listening to the rain pelt nonstop against the roof, and windows, and dripping rapid fire from the eves. I'm comfortably, peacefully cocooned in the overwhelming isolation of the rain-noise. I long to pull the duvet over my face, head. Then to sleep forever.