I have of late, though wherefore i know not, lost all my thinking things stuff.
I feel as though something has been nibbling at my brain.
Perhaps storing stuff in its little cheek and carrying it off to build a nest.
I'm stuck in some dense fog, and I don't know where it has come from.
In many ways I should be content.
Love still blooms, I have a squillion people i love scattered about the globe, the banana splits have been entrusted into my care and i seem to have developed a work ethic.
I even live in one of those exciting vibrant places you hear about with things to do.
And I'm a trained spearman, as well as having basic proficiency with a war club, small battle axes and knives.
But a malaise has set in.
I wonder if it's a lust for adventure, or just a settling for a change of scenery.
It pains me to admit it but this may be home sickness.
Though I can't place where the home i vomit for is.
Or perhaps no permanence is distressing me as much. Even the journey seems more transcient than it ever did before. Too many loo breaks.
Who the hell knows?
None of this is important.
I scribble to tell you writing is dead and the pencil is reborn.
But I have no scanner so welcome to using your imagination.
One is half aging pierced american footballer, half melon.
One is a tribute to my confusion about meaning of a certain position of the legs.
One is an islamic anarchy gnome.
I expect constructive feedback and favourites.

And here may i also say, journalism is dead to me. I've never been so disillusoned so quickly.
Until thursday!
I pray you all survive the coming breeze, and have had a mystical first term.

Love and some bagels
Syd.