Even now, as I watch "The Butterfly Man," I don't know what to write. But I do not want to fall in love with London. No more than I did of Victoria. I only realize that the more I travel, the more I want to travel. I think I understand why God has not given me a husband to start a family with. God knows I need to travel. Sometimes that fact hurts for the lonliness when I hear the cackle of a toddler, or see the smile of a baby, but today, I see it in a different light. And I feel comfort and serenity.
Arghh.. no good descriptive phrases are coming from me tonight. And I don't know why except that there is a distinct feeling of loss somewhere within. Back from the risque side of me, status quo from here on out. I'm gazing at an island I once visited, and reminiscing about the time spent there.
And now I'm thinking about a memory that hasn't even begun yet. I'm formulating expecation and precious thoughts under blustery winds where Sherlock Holmes is ever-searching with Dr. Watson to save the world from the likes of Jack the Ripper. And an eerie wind blows the names of the millions of slaughtered townspeople, headless and sorrowful. Killed for religion, as many have sacrificed for centuries, but somehow the history of my home language resounds with a tinkling sound.
Well, cheers. And I'll raise a glass of Guiness for you too.