I'm writing this at the cafe. There are no real reasons, I suppose, other than the same old ache which drove me to write at Danalex or at home.

I am sitting in the men's bathroom, listening to the birds chirping as I'm chilled by the cold breeze which drifts through the bars and screen of the window.

Today is another of those days. My presence here depresses me. My thoughts, as ever, are elsewhere.