When the strings of my heart start to sever

[lizblackdog]

Woke up in the middle of last night with a rush of memories coming into my head apparently out of nowhere. Memories of the good times, of coffee shops and motorway service stations, bacon and peacocks at Portmeirion, road trips to Iron Age forts and the expedition to Mortlake. Sunset over the New Forest, deer in Richmond Park, squirrels in shirts, silliness in supermarket car parks and the Weasel War Dance. It was excruciating.

Eighteen years. And, holy shit, I'm still here. If I wanted to be cynical (and, I'm aware, loathsomely self-pitying) I would call that proof that the whole thing is one vast cosmic black joke.