I am currently pondering my internal workings, the remainders of my birthday cake on the plate next to me and the whole “situation” with everyone’s favourite manwhore. The internal workings issue is not for public consumption (those who need to know, know), the last slice of cake is being consumed as we speak and well, it’s not like the MW#1 issue is going anywhere.

Busy attempting to keep everything light and breezy and non-committal in my head and give space to the point I might appear disinterested. I focus on staying resolutely undemanding, detached, not bothered- but of course I have a few demands I think are plain human and not those of the stalker I am always paranoid I could appear, am not detached and am bothered…

I’m tired, concerned, my bones ache…

Have now moved away from the cake and on to the delights of springbok biltong whilst I attempt to understand my tax situation and fill in forms… bye bye birthday… I’m just feeling extra self-indulgent and grumpy this evening. For once it’s not “just the way my face hangs”- the permanent frown etched on my face really is something to beware of.

Here is a poem that I think comes as close to literary and artistic perfection as is possible:

Now Love that dissolves the limbs shakes me,
Sweetly bitter unvanquishable creeping thing.

It’s written by the Sappho and of all the poetry I have read so far it is the one piece of text I think important enough to consider getting inked into my skin. It is beautiful.

Wondrous poetry ahoy in Robot Wisdom’s Solace: Textbook of Romantic Psychology

Bed. Patrick. Hug.

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