On IG, I come across a post by Irish artist Dorothy Cross, on the occasion of burying her dog. There is a short video of smoke from what I think is a funereal pyre, as if for a king or a warrior, and then photos: a table, on which a black lump wrapped in a blanket and flowers lie; a freshly dug pit; closeup of the dearly departed, all still limbs, just sleeping maybe, and finally the pit again, now closed and marked with a large stone, surrounded by flowers. Sadness overcomes me, thinking of Sam, thinking of how there would never be enough time with Sam. I am always thinking ahead, toward a future of diminishing plenitude, and this makes me sad too.

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Yesterday morning, all morning, Caoimhe's dog howled, setting a dolorous tone on this otherwise bright day. The hours passed swiftly in chores, straightening and tidying and washing and sorting. Meanwhile the mind remained unkempt. All those disorganised thoughts. I went to the castle cafe, hoping its familiar environs will cure me of restlessness, and also knowing it wouldn't. (It doesn't.) To not write: a misery.

To write: another kind of misery. If only I was inclined toward embroidery or carpentry!

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Today: the random and fleeting desire to cry. Probably an effect of the hangover, feeling too much, despite a lovely night at Anna's house. Probably, too, a by-product of not writing much lately. I feel like I've misplaced something terribly vital to me, only I don't know what it is.

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At Anna's house we slept in the cosy attic under a roof that leaked honey. It seemed appropriate after the evening: delicious meal, followed by rambling chat beside a fire, surrounded by the darkness of true countryside, furry and felicitous like lichen. The house is a hybrid abode, part ancient stone cottage, dark and cool, part modern extension, all glass and light. (The architect drew the plans in exchange for artwork.) It contains a benign ghost, we are told, of an old man who smiles and waves. Anna also has a regular human visitor, a man who comes in without knocking and looks around, before leaving, confused; he grew up in the cottage, ages and ages ago.

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