Hey, how are you?
England gives up winter reluctantly, or maybe sunny days don't go with the English temperament; a little like the fundamental, ludicrous incongruity of geriatric men in miniskirts. The agonizing drag into spring (or is it summer, now?) makes me hysterical.
Around me, a worldscape fractured in so many ways; significance nil. But broken mirrors and shattered quartz can be beautiful, or so I tell myself.
Though, ultimately broken. But to construct idle metaphors is to loosen grip on strict realities, and my hold is tenuous at best, hysterically nihilist at its worst, last night.
Consequently, I'm hysterical. Reflection is a lonely place, but it's more a gripping kind of terror, when you can't help but imagine meeting an empty room in the mirror instead of your own dull-eyed gaze.
Oh I'm ok.