Today I feel like a high pitched, melodramatically delicious Kate Bush song. Plus it was discount day at Salvation Army and all I could do was stock a cart with too many books. Rumi at the top at check out and a man behind me in a tye-dye shirt and a wonderful accent started talking about the spirtual wonder Rumi had brought him. The way he spoke with intricate passion about poetry made me want to turn his words into a beautiful stain glass. Talked for half an hour about poetry and books and then he gave me his number. He was 45 and looked a bit like what I always imagined R to look like at that age. There flows in all the irony that always has to spoil the mood when curious things fall my way. I fear that all the men I meet will always have to hold a splatter of grafitti even if they had never touched a wall in their life with colour. Perhaps that is a consequence of love and loss, someone once warned me so. So here I am with a number from a man twice my age and all I can do is listen to Hounds of Love as loud as possible.