Drifting in Docks

Strange times.
Feels like the year hasn't yet got a narrative. No story yet. Still feels like I'm drifting in the Sargasso Seas of January. Surely can't be my birthday next Sunday. 38years old? How did that happen? I'm sure New Year was only last week. Sure Christmas is next week. Still November. Still thinking about starting something called 'Tales from Bridge 39'...
Strange times.
Strange time (running backwards)
Perhaps.
Fragmented.

Joe left Brighton this week, back to the West Country, and to wherever his future takes him. I saw him emerging from the twilight realms of St Anne's Park last Sunday as I paced the streets on my epic Sunday walk. He was stressed out; leaving Brighton, problems with his landlord.
I still have loads of his old vinyl he hasn't listened to for years.

Halfway through the seventh drawing in the Book of Deleriums. For once, I am quite pleased with it. By copying the technique of an artist called Charles Burns for the sky, I have discovered a rather pleasing effect, giving more a sense of an old woodcut. I really must find my camera cable so I can upload photographs. Talking about drawing is something which suddenly strikes me as rather ridiculous.

The skies have changed. Could see it all this week; thick banks of bright white cloud, apart from one day, when the clouds took a more sobre turn and seemed to threaten rain. Spring clouds. Worcester echoes. There always seemed to be clouds like this in Worcester, days that remind you of cathedrals and rain.

Fragments and drifting. Fishing in still waters from an abandoned dock. Dead ships by creaking harbour, and even the gulls look desolate.

35 minutes to midnight.
So quiet outside the House of Bedsits tonight.
So quiet inside too.