Am I the shadow of someone that I used to know? Certainly the edges of my frame have been worn down by the solemn pursuit of solvency. But what AM I?

Reality is bullshit.

Political science... my former academic career... left me devoid of optimism. The army drained me of my rebellion. The Church mind-fucked me.

Is this my lashing-out?

Against God? Against the Church? Against the Government? Against Academia? Against Sinn Fein? All the institutions that I have called home... what am I outside their walls?


I don't have a purpose but existence. The idea that there might not be any reason for existence is so boring... but it feels like that's where I'm heading.

As much as I try to run from apathy - no one wants to buy this fucking novel. This novel is all that I am right now. This novel is me. I am this novel.

It'll suck if it's shit.

My hernia's come back.

It's dark out. Getting warmer. Still cold.

I belong in the night. But I can't be there right now.

The night is when I write. But as I've mentioned - it's hard to find the fucking time.

Fuck. That's enough. Go to bed.