I'm going to start today with that which I ended with yesterday;

'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive and to be young was very heaven.'

Not yesterday, but the day before, I wrote that ^ on a chalkboard, covered with a neverending white squiggle in the middle of children's Ikea. I wrote it in pink, half a metre off the ground, so that it would stand out. Then I went and sat in a little chair, shaped like an egg. It was bright orange. If you pressed your head down flat onto your knees and pulled in your feet, there was a ribbed yellow cover you could pull over yourself, like a caterpillar's cocoon. I sat down, folded myself in to prove that I could, folded myself out and began reading Chekov's plays - I began with 'The Seagull'.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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