TANGIBLE: Loving loving loving this rain in perpetuity we seem to be getting around here lately. Rain tends to be a rather good omen for me so three days of being able to ramble around with a large beige umbrella with cats all printed on it and my blue wellies and be able to love the sounds made when all I can hear is the world around me has made me much more mellow than I've been. But who knows how long it shall last.

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INTANGIBLE: Sigh. It's waiting, that's all it is. It is not madness or failure or dysfunction! It is fear! Fear of what? Does it matter? Fear of something strange and nameless and peculiar and nebulous. It is the state of unsettlement that I have felt since last March. It is the daily realisation that there is no point in wasting pleasant emotions upon a time that shan't matter. Is that sad? Sick? Likely. But a year from now this shall all be history. Less than a year, milovelies. To have my future once again be a glorious mess of uncertainty and excitement instead of daily predictability—to not know what a day shall bring—I'll remember the feelings once more. They're just unfamiliar. Addressing such things is the first step, I suppose.

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MADE OF PENCIL-MARKS AND/OR YARN: I'M GOING TO GO DRAW THINGS NOW. And then finish the Sock. The Sock gets capitalised because the Sock is transcendental and majestic. Glorious and ageless. It radiates inner light rivalling the most brilliant of stars and suns. Truly it is a pink striped deity among knitwear.

I am proud of that sock. Although I suppose when it is done I will have to knit another one. And I might not love it as much because it will not be my first. And then I will feel guilty for not loving it as much. And of course it cannot be the Sock. There can be only one Sock. This might be a problem.