Just like that and we're over the edge, down the face of the shale cliff and we won't see another evening above twenty degrees for eight and a half months. I remember it so clearly from last year, too, that one tangible day when every molecule in your body vibrated with the fact that it was the last one, the last day for patios and beer and riding around town on the bike for no reason other than to do it. From here on out, everything is merely functional.

A good screening at 3QF, and a good crowd, and a good deal of laughing, and some good drinking for afters. I made three films this year, two of which (Nuns That Fuck and Far, Far Away) I showed tonight, and called it even at that. Now I'm completely inert - not writing, not thinking about writing, not planning the Next Thing at all. I have one big problem I'm still trying to solve, and a host of other big problems I can't even start with until I get this one under lock and key. It's surprisingly centering, though, so I don't mind siphoning strength off its singular consumption of my life. It's very zen: you focus on one problem, and all the other ones just go away. Solving problems by not solving them. I am the river.

Still, my skin aches. It hangs off me like elephant folds. Underneath is a layer of fresh pink cells that has never known touch, and also won't know what it's missing, will never complain, never make noise, never ache. But the baggy sack that surrounds me right now is livid for touch. It's quite distracting really, rubbing the hairs on the backs of my arms to try to get some kind of sensation up, and failing. It's like tickling yourself: you never laugh.