I know I've said this before. Some of you made kind comments. I probably never managed to find the right words to reply to them. You've probably stopped reading by now.
It's easy to talk about emotions, but 6 years in Cambridge taught me that emotions don't count: they're what stupid people have instead of science degrees. I don't know how to talk about anything that matters.
Nearly every morning I wake up feeling sick and panicky at the things I haven't done and the things I'll never do and I'm scared to look at the emails that are probably waiting in my inbox to tell me that I've failed at something else. See, it's easy to talk about that.
When I sat down and started staring at the screen this evening I was going to try to write about the election, about politics. It's laughable, isn't it? No, not the election: the thought that someone like me would try to talk about a grown-up subject like that. It's like a dog standing on its hind legs.
Maybe it's for the best. There's enough opinion and enough noise in the world that it's probably a good thing if I refrain from adding to it. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn't written this -- oh, certainly it would have been better, but sometimes better is still bad. The only way to make it good is to unravel it all, all the way back to the start: the hands withdrawing and the light receding and the first cry drawn back into the throat, cutting off the fatal breath.