14 March 1691, Monday
The night grows darker whilst the drooping sun falls plum, pink, and gold behind the low-tide bay. I have been sitting here, quill in hand, ink dripping onto the blotter, for an hour or more. I feel like a blotter myself. Tis as though every thought I have ever had has been left somewhere, out there, in the stable with the horses, perhaps. Lizzie putters round the house lighting candles so I can see well enough to write by, though I accomplish little. Ideas will not straighten themselves out in my head no matter how hard I twist and tug. Tis as though I have never known any words ever.
As I write this nonsense Lizzie chats to me about how she cannot get over the honey-sweet smell from the beeswax candles, she being used to the foul smell of tallow in the rushlights
