Another page turns on the calendar, August now, not July. He is spinning the silk threads of his story, weaving the fabric of his world, for not long ago he spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest. He wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness ... somehow, he dragged himself out of the dark and asked for help. He spins and weaves and knits his words and visions until a life starts to take shape. There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore. He was finally starting to thaw.
