Fucking full moon

She's upset my plans yet again. I've been having a busy week, granted, but on top of this I've had to contend with black thoughts; things seemingly ending; para-fucking-noia; stress, crying... oh blah blah blah, poor me.

I can see the end of the tunnel though, it's not too far - then I'll be back to happy old me (not Andrew-trist-Williams, as Alison calls it).

Keeping busy is key (though not work-busy, which is detrimental). I'm making some remixes at the moment: Scott Walker, Belinda Carlisle, not sure who else to do yet though. I want to finish these ones first.

Even getting ID'd in the supermarket just now isn't enough to cheer me up (I had no ID on me either, so the boy behind the till had to call a supervisor. My argument consisted of showing her my white hairs and telling her I was born in the same year as Star Wars. She seemed satified with that.)

Maybe a lazy day reading the paper will help. Maybe some unexpected emails from faraway friends will arrive today, maybe I'll get texted some unexpected loveliness. Who knows. The world (as far as the living room, study and garden) is my mollusc.