All of a sudden, when you least expect it, and for no reason at all.

I still want to make a living writing. Partly to let mum and dad beam, partly to make some kind of God that probably exists smile and nod her head. Partly so the pain I’ve put both me and my girlfriend through in trying to be ‘either a musician or a writer’ doesn’t just sit there shrugging for the rest of time. To share myself, of course. To give something to you and get something back in return.

 
And I think that’s about it. There’s not much else to do in these buildings except eating and loving. The only reason any of us do anything is so it can be recorded somewhere. Well then, get better at recording, I say.

 
I did alright in making things for a while. I thought that was enough. And then that enough became a wall. And then a truck came and squashed me against that wall. And then I tried wriggling free while it all stuck fast and did its job; being difficult to break. And I limped around for a few years. But I fixed my leg. I fixed my leg, like, a few weeks ago. After a few years, it’s a few weeks ago I fixed my leg. A few weeks.

 
So everything right now comes to me in colour. Colours I haven’t seen since I could dance. And I'm using the light to do the things I want to do again. And I want to do new things. And I want to make a living writing.