I disappeared for a while from here, which if you noticed probably warrants an explanation.
Living alone, and being alone most of the day, means that your thoughts are your own, and with no-one there to distract you with this or that, they certainly can take a wander. There is a lot I have done recently which I feel I should apologise for, not that apologising any more will make things any better, in fact it may well make everything worse. The trouble is that knowing what you deserve will make you fear what is to come. All the time, every moment between the seconds you are being reassured that things are ok. This can make you a little highly strung. I felt that this feeling was spreading onto this place. So I stopped.
Tonight, I took a wrong-turn when walking from work and got to thinking. Our thoughts being all we have, it is no wonder we cling to them so. Every moment is spent trying to make our thoughts 'be' something, a play, a song, a book, an article, a building, a painting, a photograph. All in the hope that the thought won't perish with, if not before, us. In making these things, however, we do not acheive our aim. We do not crystalise our thought into anything at all. All we do is make something new. Decartes would tell that all these newr things instantly become tricks. Illusions of our intepretation. It is true that after some time we look back at a photograph and feel a vague warm feeling of familiarity. But it is probably a familiarity with the picture. We are no longer there and those thoughts are gone. Funny how we always think we will remember but are forever forgetting.
So I guess this is why this place has been put back, because it is a special thing in it's own right. These are not thoughts but words, they will mean something else at some other time, but they are still necessary.