The Return of the Repressed

I can't say "I'm back," for I am still here. While I never actually went away, I certainly got emotionally flattened and knocked down deep enough beneath the existential top soil that I didn't have the heart to photographically document my vomit, never mind anything else. However, I have gradually developed a lovely trail to commute between that comfortable sewer hole and the world beyond, enjoying an increase in the size and number of flowers along the way that can only be explained by one, or both, of the following situations: one is the display of love from friends and family, and appreciation of life when it isn't shit, and the second is the ongoing effect of various post-nuclear disasters, in which the radioactivity in the soil and in the organs of animals (including humans) continues to produce appallingly perverse splendours of growth. Being a Hater, the evil eyes of the sewer are what I tend to focus on, which is frankly a self-destructive myopic tendency that blurs and smears across the figures I know are always there but forget to acknowledge and thank. Thanks again, magic figures.

Now. What's on the trail these days? Well, I'm well. As can be. Given the circumstances. And I do not wish to tempt fate by catapulting myself into total cheerfulness right now, so, really, I just am. Which is better than not.

And that's all for the moment...