Dear Harriet Walter,
I think I'll go abandon people and be a hermit in the mountains. I'll tend goats and strum lutes and wear long robes and not hurt. I'll give up materialism and vanity and eat clean things, and sometimes on rare Saturdays I'll wash extra thoroughly in my freezing river and put on a nice dress and a floppy sun-hat and white gloves and write the word hesed in the dust with a gnarly stick before going down to the city to be around busy people and cobbled streets and musicians and old theaters and fancy restaurants with outdoor patios, and I'll stay the whole day there until evening, when the lights strung between posts turn on, and I'll dance a while with somebody I'll never see again, and then at last climb back up my mountain, where my goats will make goat noises at me and will not have missed me.
I will curl up in bed and breathe in the silence and let myself remember just for a moment how being around people can be a slow and painful death, and then I will fall asleep and the goats will eat the sun-hat which I discarded on a table.
OKAY SELF SHUT UP, the people here are wonderful people and hermitage is not hygienic and everything is going to be ok
Surely I'm not actually going to post this drivel.
Here is a picture of a tiny turtle, for merit.