Today has been odd, for the sole reason that I actually began continuing writing things I started days, weeks and months ago. There's hope yet. I'm now sitting down - or rather, hunched over my desk with the happenstance of being rested on the seat - , cup of tea on the side, two monitors scarily close to my face and the Dresden Dolls playing Missed Me with Amanda Palmer attacking that piano like it had just raped her daughter (very odd. Just as I typed this Amanda just sang the words "it serves you right for kissing little girls"). The lighting is very limited. This desk lamp is facing the wall and is about 10 watts away from being as bright as a birthday candle. I should probably go to sleep, but that's no fun anyway. I don't dream interesting things. My last dream was I was set up on a blind date with Harley Quinn and forgot she hated parsley sauce ("Mr Joker never forgot I hated parsley sauce"). My dreams are shite. The bloke in a room on the opposite side of this courtyard doesn't like us in this flat, we've decided. Either that or he's shit scared of us, which wouldn't be a surprise. We've nicknamed him Richard, or Red Shirt (because he always wears a red tshirt, except for when he doesn't). We decided to do this very nice thing and post up a huge notice on our window that reads "What is your name?" which wouldn't be so bad if, when we looked outside, didn't look like some sort of obscure ransom note. By the time we got all the letters realigned, he was probably scared of us, which is understandable. He's caught us looking at him through the window, which probably doesn't help. That's not weird, right?