In the alcove

So I sit in my grey room, hearing, but not listening to, the grinding elevator's descent/ascent, and I write this. Whilst all you important people ascend/descend I'm here writing on the back of discarded photocopies.

I take the best home to my depressing "studio flat" where I transcribe keyboard and interweb-wise what I think you'll appreciate. Although, saying that, I know enough about the blogosphere that no links out and no links in make this a peninsula whose only egress is barb-wired by no hub, no authority, search engine obscurity.

And if you have stumbled across this (barrier) then fair play to you, well done, buy yourself a jar of pickled cockles to celebrate. Then fuck off. Move along, there's nothing to see here, this is my cheap therapy.

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