I didn’t sleep much last night. A single sentence entered my head while brushing my teeth, a sentence regarding the ongoing re-write of This Wreckage et al.
At first I thought “this would be an irrelevant last-minute ass-pull, why is this in my head?”, but it started to lead my mind astray anyway. Ten hours of fitful, half-awake tossing and turning later, and I realised that it actually makes a kind of sense in the grand scheme of things that is so close to perfection it hurts. Plus, it comes with an attendant host of glorious implications and extrapolations that that may even serve to coalesce the disparate pieces that I have so far assembled for the trilogy finale Shattered By Light (how ironic that title is at the moment), and help to raise some more armchair/pub philosophy while we’re at it!
In other words, I was the wierd guy at the train station scribbling in his notepad. Not a trainspotter, but an artist. And that makes it all right, doesn’t it?