Just dropping by to say a lousy hello.

I do want to write down something here, but I just don't have the energy, or the solitude, to do that.

There just isn't this mad, gleeful sort of mood that compels me to write now, although that mood does come and go throughout the day. Words would just suggest themselves then, sort of segue/bubble into my consciousness. Nothing of that now, because I'm kind of tired. 

Oh, have I told you about my temporary insanity induced by reading Haruki Murakami? It was yesterday night, after reading about half of a short story of his, I got more angsty than I ought to about the fact that I have to take a taxi to a booksale. I don't know, it isn't that the subject matter is depressing, and I've certainly read more depressing things that I loved whole-heartedly (Anne Enright's The Gathering). It's something in the writing style, I think. I just got utterly desperate, quite irritable. My twitter stream is what's left of last night's spell, of which I'm now too tired to describe and be funny. I must warn you that I'm Unusual, but I think anyone reading this would have whiffed that out already.