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Sometimes only an outpouring of pretentious twaddle will do. It’s 1.34am and I am in my lounge with the TV on in the background. Some film is giving me satisfying late night noise. I wrote in my little pocket journal – small Indian style book with hand made paper – that when the other me – the writer creature – needs to write, and I inexplicably deny that creature an outlet, then I suffer. Oh I suffer like a martyr. I am brave and exceeding courageous to the whining and the melancholy which begs me to do some bastard thing, to open a little door and send those words to my fingers, my poor liddle stiffy podgy fingers. Blah blah blah.

 But as I said (earlier, with a fountain pen) I have to soothe my poor trapped beast. It’s the missing curvy awkward piece in an otherwise, currently quite replete picture.  Life bulges with impossible demands and wayward needs, but how can anyone complain of that? It really must be time to get my sorry ass in shifted, to put my gobby mouth where any money might be and wrench out the damn stuff.

Let this be a countdown…. come and kick my butt people!

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