I’m beginning to moulder. Also to experience chthonic rumblings. All of which means I should probably start writing fiction again before I go totally off. I have therefore acquired a copy of Ian Brown’s Sixty, which I plan to deploy as a kind of Yorick’s skull,and different coloured index cards and am off, bound on yet another voyage down, down, down into my inner depths.
Only this time, this time I swear it, I’m not going to sweat the damn thing(s) ever getting published, because, really, I am just too old for this shit.