i sit here, at 10.44pm on the nineteenth of april, sleep deprived, sitting under a hovering cloud of doom, scratching (of all things to be doing!) into a piece of plastic with a wooden stick with a metal needle on the end. my whole self is being poured into this singular etching, all my current emotions, feelings and trouble of ye olde soul. and somehow it is still just a picture of a skeleton.
i may well be scratching precariously into my own soul.