This town, small and incestuous...

Late afternoon and time to work, routine walk up to the department, frantic faces, sweaty armpits and exaggerated laughter hits me slap bang in the face. Login failed, retry...  Logged in, open a “new document,” stark white screen. Listening to my pretentious indie electro I try and gather the courage to start typing.

Once again I have disregarded the hand written “Things to do” list on my wall. I start typing, satisfying some primal instinct, some force within me. Hammering these keys, creating some kind of idea expressed in a borrowed language that I have made my own. I am the lonely one; I am the happy one in the crowd. Sometimes it feels like I am what I wish to see in a world where nothing is what you would expect it to be. Rotating at break neck speed like the CD in my drive, thoughts flick in and out screaming for attention, then flung back again, far away from the centre. I’m a spectator in a personal venture of exploration, studying the rest of you through a conceited lens of what I wish to see. 

I have come to live in a state of shabby gentility...