I've got this thing I'm writing in my head, and it's been kicking around in there so long that I'm afraid to write it down now in case it makes no sense. A bit of it slipped out onto a post-it note and somebody stood on it by accident; stood on it with words, I mean, but I can still see the footprint in my head. Take nothing. Leave nothing. Stop still for long enough and there won't even be one line of prints in the sand, the wind will blow them all away and leave nothing but the place where you stand, the place you have to start from. Everybody right now seems to be running away from everything, though, just as I'm trying to settle down; I feel like I'm drowning in the wave machine.
It's too hot for book reviews, but recently I've been reading In the Heart of the Country by J M Coetzee, which is a big fly-blown tangle of bitterness and futility, and you'd think it would be just exactly my mood; but the experience of reading it is like being badly constipated on the hottest weekend of the year. There's no particular bit I can point to and say that's why I'm not enjoying it, but after reading a page of it I just feel bloated with it; it doesn't go anywhere, it just sits there swelling in the heat. Accomplished, doubtless; but unpleasant. I haven't finished it yet; still straining.
Ah well, the summer's nearly over, isn't it, anyway.