My birthday makes me sad. When did this start happening?
In other news, I’ve been thinking obsessively about a story I started writing ages ago; characters have even started showing up in my dreams. You’re all there in my head and you want to get out, I know. I’m going to make more time for you.

EDIT: I made time for them, and then I didn’t, and now I am again. Bear with.

The older I get the more the city feels alien to me. I want to live in a house of wood and stone in some wild place, a Radagast of New Middle Earth. I’ll be a friend to bird and beast alike and strange people will not be welcome unless they are the good kind of strange. Interested parties: meet me in the field filled with sunshine (somewhere in north Shropshire).