Paint me a picture of muddy ecru, cinnamon of streets awash in umber, sepia. Pointillist glints of color reflected from umbrellas and raincoats flashes of christmas red and green. Of a warm pub In early afternoon Smoke and beer and wet wool smells wrinkling your nose but it is the best place to warm and scribble notes of the afternoon in nottingham. I'll paint you a picture of crystal clear washed air and unreasonable miraculous november sunshine so bright we wince Sweet gums every color from liquid lizard green through gold and orange magenta purple the froufrou cancan girl of trees. Despite the shardlike brilliance here the weather I feel the color I see is your smoky English cold and drip brown grey umber drab not this bright california candy. With you gone I lose my words. I cannot write or barely The writing turns primitive A word here a word there But my river of words dries up to mere splashes on the page Small, disconnected discolored tea colored pools No clear laughing chattering, giggling stream. How much of that creative river we share becomes inaccessible when you're not here.