Reading Drive your Plough over The Bones of the Dead, which is really hitting some interesting notes - it is about an old man dead to begin with, which is hitting all the wrong notes in this time of my life, but there is also a lot about loneliness, snow, being away from people, knowing you're right, loving the animals and hating the hunters, loving the dogs, making a stand... I know the book gets even bloodier, but for now, it's pulling me back into that still-frame of my consciousness, that fictional moment of my power, when I am sitting on a train with my hand in my bag, fondling the fabric of my banner. In my half-written novel that is a very important moment, but right now for me, it is a very true moment. It is even possible it will grow into a mental palace type of a moment. And this book tastes similar, when I am reading it and the the weather is dull and grey and there are no colours, because winter.