Text and image Britt-Arnhild Wigum Lindland
I sat out in the garden last night. My diary in my lap, with no energy to write.
a small earthworm gliding over a stone
white roses
the comforting sound of Terje's old handmower
my dear old neighbour weeding, humming as she goes
ripe raspberries
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memories from Venezia
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Words came, and after a while I put away the diary and picked up my book;
Peter Ackroyd's Venice, Pure City
