Endless road

Nothing. My memory is long.

[Private] Yet not so long that I can now recall the feel of sunlight streaming in through glass windows on a crisp autumn day, warming my flesh as I sat reading or composing my correspondences.

Or the delight of enjoying a fire, watching and listening to the embers glow and crack in the grate. These nights, such noises would engender panic and no small amount of fear should one of the embers burst free from the prison of the grate.

Or the warmth of living flesh touching mine in the night. Of listening to hearts beating and knowing that one of them is mine, or feeling how quickly my blood was pulsing through my veins when all my senses and emotions were excited and aroused.

I have not forgotten life. I simply cannot recall how it felt to be alive.

It is subtle, this distinction, but a cold comfort. [/Private]

I have forgotten nothing.

She felt as if she'd slept-in a bit later than usual, but realised that she was being a bit fanciful. It was just having her sleep broken during the daylight hours, but it had been worth everything. At least now, she could be able to arrange for a trip down to Ancona with the knowledge that it was something that they both were looking forward to, and not an effort on her part to salve her conscience.

Again, it seemed as if the house was quiet... no, no, a brow rose in amusement and a smile quirked her lips, the strains of Hot Stuff were coming from down the hall. She was going to have to speak with an architect about converting one of the older and now unused rooms into a discothèque. But first, she had a holiday to book.

Isabel wondered briefly where Roberto was, hoping to question him about his earlier task, but quickly headed for her office instead. She had the terrible feeling that if she saw him, he'd say something unpleasant, such as "Giancarlo and Primo are still scheduled to dine here with us tonight."

There was going to be nothing unpleasant to disturb her until after these arrangements were made.

The storm continues to rage outside, some would see it as a miracle considering the firestorm that is raging across Los Angeles. I can see the oily orange glow of destruction rising over the besieged city through the curtains of rain the Pacific has blown over us as a buffer.

It is almost beautiful.

I see the spirits in each lightning strike. Unfamiliar faces that scream for release and revenge; sad, bewildered faces that cannot accept that the 'afterlife' is so greatly different from what the priests have promised.

It is a great irony that the touch of Frost has burnt so many.

The rain, the gift of water, I feel is no manifestation of the spirit storm. Rather I feel it is a gift from our young guest this night. I long to discuss with her the form her later education took, for it puts me in mind of my mother and grandmother... and their Mother before them. But not now, the time is not right. Such a conversation will belong to a gentler night when fire and Frost do not seek to consume all in their path.

In the thunder, there I hear my own anger and disappointment of my plans being thwarted. I have gotten so close to achieving my goal only to have it dashed from my hands by a power-hungry madman. What is it that the old hippy's song advises?

Don't let it bring you down, it's only cities burning.