cellophane sheep

Back in dreary England from sunny Portugal.  We flew in last night.  Planes no longer hold any excitement or pleasantry for me, I've discovered, but the view was cramped yet beautiful in an urbanized sort of way.  The lights of the city, bright like fireflies in the pitch black as we touched down.  I wondered if they really had no lights in the dark, dark areas, or if they did but they couldn't be seen at such a height? Also thought of home, Blighty.  The birthplace of many, many good things I am and have been very fond of.  Things that have given me reason to live... musicians, writers, film-makers, actors.  Many of them born, then they lived and died, all in the same place as I... now home, life is stunted and sad and silent.  If I stop I can hear the empty spaces like air in a paper cup, so I have to keep moving like before or else depression sets in... 

      I watched the Science of Sleep whilst on holiday, on my dad's mac laptop.  It had me laughing all night, and made me realize that I'd rather just stretch out and wait to encounter a guy like the protagonist, Stephane, instead of dashing into pointless and eventually painful relationships with each everyman I'd have little in common with.  There'd be no point.