haze.

© skydiveparcel.

Here comes another change in pace. I've been reading Karl Hyde of Underworld's daily blog, thoroughly enjoying the idea of day-to-day posting with images, too. It's a lovely, personal look at the innerspace of one of my favourite artists. I love his openness, the way he's so willing to share with his fans - it's not something you often see. (And obviously, I'm not stalking his online presence at all. What sort of a creep would do that?)

The last few days have been headaches and nausea. I'm doing something wrong, though I can't pin down what it is, exactly. Too many cigarettes, coffees, too much stress and apathy, not enough food? (I need to learn how to cook, and properly, too.) Who knows. My creative output has hit a standstill: full ashtrays, blank pages. Haven't touched my Canonet QL17 in days, or figured out how to get my photos off Dad's Canon 350D, and left my friends at the Corner Hotel when the the headache (hi, mum, are you having fun, and now are you on your way to a new tension headache?) became too much.

I waited forty-five minutes for an Epping train at Flinders Street Station before disembarking at Bell and walking home in the cool and darkness of a late spring evening. Strange how those small things can be the sweetest moments of life - the backstreets of Preston, singing 'Born Slippy.NUXX' loudly, raucously to the dark and empty streets - well, empty, until I realised I was walking towards a twenty-something male who looked rather disconcerted and bemused at the sight of me. I crossed the road, unlocked the door and entered my house, still riding the high of Karl Hyde and Rick Smith's delightful grooves. I'm going to make it to Romford one day. One day.