I spend most my time reading (not for pleasure or leisure, necessarily).
Just read the most awful ever. It’s awful. It’s so awful I wish I weren’t born. No, I’ll take that back since, if I weren’t born, the Angel wouldn’t be around either. If only to read crap.
There is prose. And there is shite. And when the shit hits my fan I am crest fallen. How do writers live with themselves? How do newspaper editors live with themselves paying by the word? At length?
Whatever. I will lie down and apply a cold compress to the remaining of my eighth dead brain.