Oh, oh, I am too tired to write the letter I want to write to you. I couldn't sleep last night - after far too many hours rolling around my bed and my brain the sun made itself too apparent, so I rose and made two songs, then spent a happy hour in my park with the Independent, surrounded by gangs of mothers and their docile babies, smiling smugly on as one lady failed to stop her own infants screams, until their spawn joined in, and the park became a cacophony of stilted, shrill expression. After that I helped Jeres and Soraya move house - to the pretty Superjew end of old Stokey - which filled my body with cuts and veins and blood and joy, and then I jogged home to meet Miss OddKidd, she armed with a bottle of that strange redwhite wine and a lot of good food (and a pretty amazing strawberry dress), and we finshed her mixtape, which is really fucking good. Poor OddKidd got sick. I got delirious, so now I will fall into the murky freakscape of my unconscious, and I will dream, I will only dream.