Evening

My writing is complete crap these days. Like the health I mentioned. I'm up at 4am again, which gives some indication of my mental state, but I always found the trick was to type through the rough spots, carve out solid mud nonsense and polish it up afterwards. I'm a professional after all.

Professional what?

I'll come to that. Because right now there's a fuggy grey pessimistic area around my head, the latest remnants of sensation I'd lost since the heady alcohol days. Then, the right kind of loose change and the look of a man just out for friendly times could get you enough cheap cider to send you sky high with no worries in the world for the time it took the blackout to wear off.

But where was I? I'm not sure. Just have that feeling I should be writing something.