walkaway

Curry on the cooker. Intensely antisocial weeks.

I want to draw stuff, but I can't give it any purpose, and I want to re-learn what used to be a writing skill, but I don't dare to. Pondering the november nanowrimo.

I observe myself and I wonder at how I, without noticing, became this angry uptight thing; I think I used to think it was worth idealising, and striving for, being like this; I underestimated the value of being able to look at anything without a pair of cynically coloured glasses.