Running is important. Breathing fast is important. The fan making such a lot of noise is not important. My head in a swirl is sort of important.

My promises, the ones I made to myself, they get forgotten. The ones I have inside me, that stumble out of a line of disciplined thoughts, are nagging the fuck out of me. But I know they'll get forgotten, eventually.

Fifty lashes for them.

So here we are, again. Writing and thinking and writing and the order is not really apparent.

There's the tiny matter of self-absorption being so immense it ends up absorbing your self. That is some fucking irony. The idea may seem purely figurative, but it is real. Watch as your self gets hidden by the shadow of your mirror image. Watch.

This question, it bugs: What is it that you are doing? I mean, really doing?

The other one: Where is this going?

And another one: Do you give a shit?

The answers: Go to sleep.

So that's that.

And the bubble's getting bigger, and the really tiny bit in you that's still got perspective is shivering under the size and the sheer devastation it'll cause when it bursts. But then maybe that part is the cute little drama queen and the rest of you is pragmatic, sensible and suitably indifferent.

So she's sitting and typing and she needs to figure out why the hell she suddenly needs to do this. I thought she had stopped, and no one really knew if that was a good thing or bad.

Half-afraid of resolves and literally shit-scared of declarations. Why don't you step out, potter around a bit, have a look about and then see if you're ready now? We'll discuss this further, but you gotta have the tiny bit figured out, first.

Ok, so anyway, this shit is personal.