Wasting in ennui, what have we...

This afternoon happens to have an aforementioned ill condition, plagued and brooding, suffering the very melancholy of Robert Burton's forgotten treatise.

It's hard to believe in anything it shows you. These rent skies, does it give you anything to believe in? Just when you had gotten used to the sunshine, it turns its back on you and its milk-face goes sour, sourer than yogurt, curdled by some bile who knows where it had procured, or how it came to be produced. It scowls before it cries. And how it cries...

You can believe it's the past century, and I pretend that it is. Preoccupied with tea and afternoon things, there is nothing to occupy the eyes and the mind but cakes and mince pies, and space, more space.

Amuse myself with stories, that's what I'd do. But odd how it is that even if one does this, the picture in your head is not within the words, but of the words, black and serifed, puncturing the skin of virgin paper.

Ah, I ramble.