I was certainly seduced by the self-imposed exile of one Helen Franklin, as I can relate to the dark and exquisite comfort of being blanketed in your own sorrow and regret. I’ve also worn colourless wool overcoats for similar durations or until I can no longer tolerate misplacing keys or gloves that escape into the skirt lining via passable conduits found in blown out flap pockets. Supplant acrid coffee for bitter tea and add all that time spent around a library and I could make a case that Helen and I share some common experiences. I just wish I could have imparted her the wisdom of my best friend long before her fortieth birthday:
If you don’t deal with your past, your past deals with you.
See you on the morrow,