The reason my writings for the last few days have hardly been prolific is a vague sense of misery that’s been hanging over me. Whether it’s from the ending of work on this month’s magazine or the slow solitude I’m developing as I settle too far into my role here and stop doing the things a young man should (again I live my life in anticipation of becoming a better man) I’m not sure.

What’s certain is that I’ve had a little bogle settle onto the depression of my gut and poke jack frost fingers into me. Another option for his presence could be my current poor relations with my flatmates: they’re hyper-sensitive types and I, known for my bluntness in all things, am not used to handling people with kid gloves, other than to maintain a shallow silence.

So no drooling wisdom falls from my lips tonight, no attempts to pass myself off as the tenth muse (my sex precludes that hopefully.) Just a little introspection, a little Elvisneer at my own imperfection, and little hoping that this, this ridiculous bout of depression, that it will soon end.

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About GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.