The lightning is forking through the sky, horizontally and looks pink and purple. The trees show the undersides of their leaves as the wind whips around. I sit at my computer with a frightened cat and realise I have no-one to reach out to, no-one at the other side of the screen who is interested any more. I wonder what the chances of being struck by lightning are, more when there actually is a storm out there I suppose?
Is it a hopeful sign that I have not sent this mail to you yet, that there is some kernel, an unexploded popcorn seed of self worth that contains all the pride I have left? My finger hovers over the mouse, wondering which button I will press.