West End Final

The man shouting 'Evening Standard' is sounding like he's saying 'Free Light Sternum'.

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I sometimes wonder if my creative days are over; if the flame of inspiration has finally burned out. That's what they all used to say to me at Essjes; "You've got to slow down; you've got to stop, or you'll get burnout." Apart from the obvious grammatical issues, it always confused me. Or perhaps 'bemused' is a better word. Yes, I might die young. Probably will, in fact. But what's wrong with that? What is so terrible about living a short but fulfilling life, rather than dragging the whole sorry process out over decades? These days, I don't want to die. I feel like I've wasted two years, and I want to make them up: I want to re-become. 

I was nearly there, in Souten. I was nearly who I wanted to be. Or nearly on the way there. And then along came Arthur, and then Outilschmidt, and then marriage; and now look at me. Fat, dumpy, needy; and, worst of all, comfortable. I'd almost rather be working in Shooze; in a place further down the career ladder where I didn't ultimately give a shit about my job, but where I could be myself at the end of the day. And during the day, where I could be someone totally different from myself. 

The wind seems to believe I'm thinking in the right direction.