Semi-Daily Scribbles

I have no food or water as I wander into an uncharted district lit by a full moon. Other travelers, too, have found this patch of dry land. Unlike most of the country, it does not seep and fester with the bodies of men and beasts. Many of the camp's inhabitants resemble corpses. They've gone without food, water, and shelter many more times than I have. I can play the lute and sing. Those gifts afford me a place around the fire, a cup of fermented goats milk, the heel of a dark, dry loaf. People don't want to forget they are human. Music helps remind them, remind me, we are capable of better. Less cruelty, at least. The lute was almost stolen last night. Don't know why anyone would bother if he can't play. Hard to sell, and not much good for trading. Ended up in a scuffle. Fourth finger on my left hand, little one on my right, smashed and broken. Better than the caved in skull the other guy got. The lute's just fine. Hope tonight's lot can do without accompaniment when I sing The Ballad of the Larch and Oak.