You’re expecting me to begin with a confession. Trite recollections of ‘oh, I did this in my younger years, before I knew better, and now, oh lord, I ask forgiveness for my actions and all that shit’. 

I have not come here to confess, nor is there anything about which I feel regret. My feet are healthy, my knees do not knock, even in the cold weather, and damn it has been cold this winter, and I have my breath. Which is more than can be said for my enemies. They lie in the dead earth and they will never rot, such is the weight of ice around their bones. They might curse me, and they might haunt me, but they are silent, and for that I am grateful. 

The other thing these begin with is a book. So here, here is a thought about books. I do not read, nor have I written in any pages, but something follows me each day; a sentence that repeats over and over again. A droning, buzzing, infant thing, wailing and simpering. I shut the words out, close my mind and focus elsewhere. I have no time for books.

A continuing obsession with the form of a thing. With what form does to story, how story can be shaped within a simple set of rules. What those rules might do to the eventual shape of the story being told. Who, tells it, and how it is told.

A very public first draft.

An evolution of the notion of profundicity. The same techniques, the same site, but a different take on things. Those things still remain, but are reduced in significance.