San Francisco, always a fog rolling in, sometimes feels like it rolls right into my head. Studying at the University of San Francisco, though half the time I wonder if the books teach less than a slow afternoon staring at a painting. Seven years scribbling words, blogs, articles, half-finished notes on napkins, plenty of them written just for the crack of it. Writing that never really needs to be read yet somehow always is. Meditation—well, sort of sitting still, breathing, drifting. Then again, some days I call it daydreaming and swear it works better. Reading these philosophical tomes that end up sounding like my gran from Newcastle when she mutters over her tea. Makes no sense, yet all the sense. Art too, always art, though half the sketches look like a child in Dudley drew them after a long pub lunch. Experience, seven years, odd number for an odd path. Not straight, not tidy, sometimes backwards. A line here, a pause there, bits of it all thrown together. Blogs like broken mirrors, reflections never quite matching. But maybe that’s the point—words wandering, not marching.