"You'll never make me leave, I wear this on my sleeve...
...You wanna follow something, give me a better cause to lead
Just give me what I need, give me a reason to believe..."
There is a car alarm going off a street away. At least, I hope it's an alarm of some sort; the alternative is that I've got one neuron who is running around my brain screaming, "whUwhUwhUwhUwhUwhUwhUuuuu...." and frankly that doesn't bear thinking about.
I can't draw bikes. I'm shite at drawing tech and weaponry in general, and apparently my 1940's style isn't that hot either. Dear gods Witch, what the hell are you doing? Feh.
I think my neurons have quietly and without fuss filed the Script in 'Things we Quite Like but Know will Never go Anywhere Ever'. In other words, like my stories and random shite before it, my neurons have ceased to believe that it will ever exist in any other format than a WordDoc on my computer and a wistful thought in my head. Pity. I rather liked that script. I realise this is probably unfair on James. But then I am quite often unfair to my brother; he's just one of many people I don't behave properly towards.
I think my life is like the Red Laugh. Understandably, anyone who's actually read that book might be a little disbelieving.
Remember when the main character returns form the war? He behaves normally but everyone has fits because they can't bear the thought of his wounds. He sits in his study and writes his opus and everyone is too scared and hopeful to do anything but let him. For a while he does indeed write fragments of his war experiences. But somewhere along the line his pen nib breaks; he never notices and continues to write, eventually just making meaningless scrapes and scratches on the paper. He is still under the illusion until the point of his death that he is writing an important work that will save the world from its self inflicted madness. He dies and the world goes mad.
Melodramatic in the extreme I grant you, but tonight for whatever reason, true to my mind.
Oh for fuck's sake, give me a time machine and the first 5 or 6 levels of Valeren (Warrior & Healer) and Dementate. There's someone I would like to heal and two people I would like to 'fix' prior to any of this stupid mess ever happening. That wouldn't 'solve' my life, but it would make it a lot better for all concerned I feel.
The tragedy of the world is not that we don't get what we want. Because we do. But we seldom get it when we need it and if we get it at all it's usually bad for us.
Can you guess I'm in a pokey and unhappy mood?
Is it time to quit the bookshop and the pretense of being an author / artist / whatever and get a full time job? I think it might be. Heh. Although who in their right mind would employ me is another matter.
Fuck.
Just give me what I need, give me a reason to believe..."
There is a car alarm going off a street away. At least, I hope it's an alarm of some sort; the alternative is that I've got one neuron who is running around my brain screaming, "whUwhUwhUwhUwhUwhUwhUuuuu...." and frankly that doesn't bear thinking about.
I can't draw bikes. I'm shite at drawing tech and weaponry in general, and apparently my 1940's style isn't that hot either. Dear gods Witch, what the hell are you doing? Feh.
I think my neurons have quietly and without fuss filed the Script in 'Things we Quite Like but Know will Never go Anywhere Ever'. In other words, like my stories and random shite before it, my neurons have ceased to believe that it will ever exist in any other format than a WordDoc on my computer and a wistful thought in my head. Pity. I rather liked that script. I realise this is probably unfair on James. But then I am quite often unfair to my brother; he's just one of many people I don't behave properly towards.
I think my life is like the Red Laugh. Understandably, anyone who's actually read that book might be a little disbelieving.
Remember when the main character returns form the war? He behaves normally but everyone has fits because they can't bear the thought of his wounds. He sits in his study and writes his opus and everyone is too scared and hopeful to do anything but let him. For a while he does indeed write fragments of his war experiences. But somewhere along the line his pen nib breaks; he never notices and continues to write, eventually just making meaningless scrapes and scratches on the paper. He is still under the illusion until the point of his death that he is writing an important work that will save the world from its self inflicted madness. He dies and the world goes mad.
Melodramatic in the extreme I grant you, but tonight for whatever reason, true to my mind.
Oh for fuck's sake, give me a time machine and the first 5 or 6 levels of Valeren (Warrior & Healer) and Dementate. There's someone I would like to heal and two people I would like to 'fix' prior to any of this stupid mess ever happening. That wouldn't 'solve' my life, but it would make it a lot better for all concerned I feel.
The tragedy of the world is not that we don't get what we want. Because we do. But we seldom get it when we need it and if we get it at all it's usually bad for us.
Can you guess I'm in a pokey and unhappy mood?
Is it time to quit the bookshop and the pretense of being an author / artist / whatever and get a full time job? I think it might be. Heh. Although who in their right mind would employ me is another matter.
Fuck.