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I live in a tiny cottage of a house. It's the perfect size for one person and there are these small windows in the living room on either side of the fireplace. Partially covered by vines, sometimes in winter these windows catch the evening light and play it about the room in an astonishing manner. On Sunday nights when Fiona Ritchie is on NPR, I like to sit there, watching pieces of the sun set through those windows and think about that poem by Yeats. I imagine I am alone in Innisfree.  

I love how that no matter how hard the world seems to be crashing down around me that a piece of music, a poem, a tradition, these small things ground me.

Welcome to the second abruptly ended entry! I was pretty sick that day and realized by paragraph number two that I was becoming maudlin and should just have a Nyquilada and go to bed. Which I did.

As a bonus, just for you, here's the poem I was thinking about. I've never actually been in a bee-loud glade, but I think I would like to. Just once. Except I'd probably spoil it with obsessive thoughts of getting stung and my throat closing up from the certain anaphylactic shock that would immediately follow.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 
And evening full of the linnet's wings. 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day 
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; 
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, 
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

--William Butler Yeats