Sylvia Plath has left the building.

I never consider losing my breath.
It only occurs to me in tragedy
when something stops between my diaphragm and stomach
And time stands still
Then I forget about it
Until the waters close over my head
And my hands lift up
And I'm drowning
Just for a moment before the sea says 'No,'
and pushes my body to the surface
Demanding I swim.

It was Wilde who said that all bad poetry is sincere. He has a point, but shut up Oscar.

The last couple of days were strange. It was a glorious weekend; friends travelled up from England to finish a 2 and a half year D&D campaign in person. Call it collaborative story telling or improvisational theatre or whatever, it worked a charm. The weekend was full of warmth and laughter, and it was all so happy!

I forget, you see.

Because I am a solitary worker and enjoy that solitude, I forget the radiance of great company. It was all there this weekend, and the sunshine of it lit me through Monday. Tuesday I made the mistake of reading the news...

Which was remarkably horrible.

I crashed.

And now I am up again, with work to do. So on I go.