So I write. Some times in notes. Sometimes here. But a great many remain in the unfinished, unpublishable category of things. Drafts. Digital vapour that so easily finds the delete key. But even then, it’s not the whole truth. Truth is many remain in my mind. A script of the day. The running dialogue of thinking. It fills every waking moment, and sometimes in my dreams. There is a story there, in the day to day of my life.

But who finds it interesting? I don’t. Well not always anyway. Mostly it’s just noise. The me, myself and I of self absorbed thinking; and worst still I think I’m something of a bore. There’s only so much you can say about lighting another cig. In the end it’s just smoke.

So I inhale the noxious fumes of disregard and cast about another day. Nothing more to say but a lifetime of words in my mind. It is living in my small corner of the world.

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