dharma

November November is the Somme of the year – cold, wet, futile. The clouds always seem to arrive, never to leave. I surrender to the browbeating wind, and walk down the road, unseeing. Slate sky / wept for all souls / things went south mia burrus 2012

I like the lonely look of this place … the last-person-on-earth solitude of it … it evokes a sharp, cool wind and clear sky … grit underfoot …the mawking of distant shitting shorebirds