Right now, and by that I mean right-now-this-very-second-now, I am sat up in bed, wearing the longest of white night-gowns, and the woolliest of woolly socks (forcing myself to believe that it is actually winter might make this all a little easier). I am trying, and trying, and trying to puzzle out where the problem lies. I suppose there are only really two possible answers. Either the problem lies with other people, or it lies with me. Human nature, of course, urges me to place the blame on others, but I think my own case rather more convincing.
Actually, I'm not sure that seeking the source of the problem will really be of much use. In fact, I think, all that really matters is trying to find an answer to that question. It's just that fields of mushrooms are beginning to fill the stale gaps between our conversations. It's just that I sometimes forget the sound of my own voice. It's just that I feel very little. When time ceases once more to be linear and I find myself tramping lost across the dusty clock face, will there be someone there with a map and a candle (and perhaps a chocolate biscuit)?