The book looks battered and torn. It reminds me of a dead pigeon that had been attacked by a either a cat or the sparrowhawk. The feathers and part of a wing were scattered across the garden. How much will be left by the end of year. I can see the plants greening the area over and the skeletons remains become lost.
At present, I have fallen into a fallow period and not touched a pencil to a large pieced of paper. In a way, I see this book as a metaphor of myself, something that is lost, but also a seed waiting to spring forth. Perhaps I need some rest and bit more time to just wander and draw.
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