It has been two days since I successfully managed to finish a piece, and the little I did write is now in the trash, rotting along with a few teabags, shavings and leaves off some strawberries and a banana peel. To be honest, it sits alongside my inclination to write itself. The pull of life works like this, especially for these words. You can push back onto it, and as long as you manage to get the words in, it rescinds. But if you fail to finish things, if you are too exhausted or unbothered or, god forbid, too busy, the well starts to dry up. Well, today I feel it is parched, and this is not a piece. This is just a vapid description of how I feel, and I feel uninspired. The urgencies of work, of other people, of the big and the small seem to always win in the end. They always have the upper hand. And sure, you can blame yourself for sleeping in for longer than ideal, for idling and wasting time when you could, in fact, be writing. And that is all you can do. Still, I reckon the furniture will not assemble itself, and the friends will all want favours now that you are here in the same city. Funny how our days are never constant. Perhaps, I ought to wait till I am eighty to begin. It is inane to write about a life that is still happening. It is also absurdly, incomprehensibly hard. And it is, if I may say so myself, having done it as long as I have, (unsurprisingly) lonely.