Today I wrote with another, for another, in order to give this space. The pressure of nothing rides high. Ambition is its own sword, its own fall... a rejection seen in the steam upon the window, and the gentle sway of curtain in rising radiator heat. Traffic moves, moves me, and I rise and breathe and eat and work, all for the chance to say
I had my time and now it is gone.
It is brief, but better than none. I demand from myself a return to punctuality, consistency and that anaesthetising dribble of prose that I sometimes call home.