I can’t seem to read any of the fifteen books stacked and teetering precariously in a tall pile next to my bed. One page in, and my mind starts to wander.
The same goes for writing. One para in, and the hand freezes. Again, the mind starts to wander. All this tech stuff… it’s not me. It’s not who I know myself to be.
It wouldn’t be so worrying if not for the fact that I have no fucking idea where it is my mind is wandering off to.
34, male and very Cancerian. Often irascible, even if he is prescient to his emotions. Lives for the resonance of beautiful passages, cinematic magic and aural bliss. Dabbles in 
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