No-vember.

I have not written on this thing for a long time; I should write on it more.



So I shall.



Having abandoned the library in favour of a slow and thoughtful walk home (and an admirable avoidance of reading Virginia Woolf) I have had an evening of 'relaxation'. Well, as close to relaxation as I can get.



I keep getting headaches. I am thinking lots every day and my mind keeps throwing up interesting ideas.

I see kids playing by the A3

Scrambling up the stone slope in the underpass

With that sense of urgency that a monster is coming;

Or that you're an expedition leader

The tread of your trainers scrapes cold rock

And with a burst you've bypassed

The cobwebbed white walls with the railway line on the right

Black metal veins pulsing ocassionally with life you don't know

And the light pollution adds a tint to the milky sky

Sickly mix of orange and deepening grey

Black branches; useless capillaries reaching up to

Somewhere.

I saw kids playing by the A3.

The significance of the place is a mystery to me.

I may have a stab at writing 'stream of consciousness' narration. It makes me feel a little less crazy when I read Woolf and Joyce. It also makes me feel a littles less unique. Not sure how I feel about that.