Welcome to the gutter.

So long,—oh, cruel, cruel, Unseasonable June—

21 January. There is an artificial, miserable substitute for everything. Feverishly you contrive these substitutes, and if the fever has not already destroyed you, the hopelessness of the substitute will.

In my head I write a comic strip about the adventures of a yet-untitled gang consisting of The Captain (basically me wearing a Napoleon inspired hat and a sash), Imelda Belgrave (a 1950s secretary who appears in black and white), Apathy (literally a floating scribble) and our on/off nemesis the Quilt King (a little man made of tartan fabric wearing a crown).

“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame.” 

I have little regard for an art that deliberately aims to shock because it is unable to convince