Fourth Panel, Nine Hours Work

Fourth panel, nine hours work. Not even the first page done of something I don't know if I can continue. My fingers are covered with black ink as I pore over photographs of poplars and churches and hills and summers. Old childhood echoes, and those echoes of things between those real childhood memories. Everything comes back here to open windows, and like some odd occult device, I feel the alluring desolation of certain kinds of spring days. White skies, and that resounding, surprising cold when the sun goes behind clouds.
I remember the playground of the school I attended for a year there. A freezing breaktime, waiting for the sun to come back. Freezing in thin trousers, and in the old, old morning, the sound of crows similar birds.
Fourth panel, nine hours work.
I wonder if they're windows, wonder if as I draw these memories, this countryside, there's something in there looking back at me.