And so there are just moments when the thought of writing makes you sick. Well not so much sick as it just feels woefully and prostrately inadequate. It seems so much of an indulgence, so much of a pretension, a pose, a clever-dickness about it all. And if it were only that whatever it is you burn. I really can't remember when I last felt quite so,.
I don't know it I'm just wanting something more raw, that clever avoidance no longer works, but when I think of the cringing, it makes me already want to rewrite certain bits.
If only people would realise this and have dinner with me.
