Fridays are a waste of time

Friday evening. It is hard. Callous.

I have had the opportunity to fly spiralling out the window - plummeting towards the grass at less than satisfactory velocity - and there to end. Wonderfully, beautifully. It is a missed opportunity, certainly, for adventure. Most horrid adventure.

It is surpising how often when wandering beside a busy road we are tempted, prompted by the realisation of the opportunity, to throw ourselves in front of the oncoming traffic and end the brutal hideousness of the thought of spending another evening alone in front of the ghastly television. What a beautiful instant it must be - to think that the ribs might crush, the heart stop, and the consciousness cease all at once. All over in practically an instant, and no more X Factor ever again.

Husbands are a waste of time

That is not to say we do away with them, but they are wholly unnecessary these days. These clamorous, clasping days. We weep, don't we? We weep.

I return to this corpse, shed of meat, plucked from the bone, with perhaps some intention of re-invigorating it, re-animating it. Re-embellishing it... I have no new words to spill though, that are not instantaneously obsoleted by their presence in the world. No. Not obsoleted. The words, once spoken, once written down, are rendered utterly unnecessary by their very existence. It is awful. And so I stand irresolute on the precipice of utter failure. We are so often found clinging to the ropes, dangling unpleasantly over the vast sandy void below, are we not?

So perhaps I come back with renewed vigour, but unlikely. Perhaps the last year has given me something new to say. Equally unlikely. Let us see where it goes, yes? It can only go so far.