Served my muse for over thirty years...where is she now? She comes back hauntingly in dreams of place and people. Memory struggling up from the muck. I wave it away, not sure why. Perhaps it is because there is pain involved in creation. Mistakes I made ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago seem trivial now but then again they loom large. For we, if we are the sum total of our experience, in some sense, are made of our mistakes, aren't we?