I’ve come to the conclusion that relationships are just like being alone, but with someone else (handy for sharing the bills though, and the cuddles are nice). I’ve never been much of a romantic…
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).