I've noticed a deficiency. Whenever I stroll long into the night, alone but for a thermos and a notepad, my mind resorts to the crudest of existentialisms, so much so that I soon find myself peeling back the blind and searching the visible stars for answers. I never quite fall to my knees and bellow something embarrassing, but it's an alarming development all the same. I can only pray this acne of the soul will fade. If not sorted out in one's prime, such philosophies tend to set with age, and before you know it, you're clutching a faded tome by Germany's second greatest megalomaniac and indirectly inciting your friends and family to murder you in your sleep.
Elsewhere I've been conducting an experiment in breakfasts. Instead of the usual cup of tea and crumpet, I've taken to fixing a stout bowl of porridge, sans any adornments. I haven't yet brought myself to eat it, mind you — I don't know if it's how I make it, but it always seems to resemble offcuts of wool dropped in milk and then forgotten about. My recent breakfasts have thus consisted of little more than my sneering at the bowl in front of me, my mouth only opening to gag. The experiment will only be valid if I actually consume the stuff, so for the moment I'll just have to do without. Such is the call to publish.
And now, of course, to the weather. Though at present I'm hardly what you'd call in it, I can sufficiently recall what it was like when I was, even if that isn't exactly an accurate reflection of how it's progressed since then. Actually, that's not true. I've just spent three days not noticing such things.
Her - I was frustrated to find David Stratton's review of 2013's *Her* behind The Australian's crummy paywall, but we know from The Age's movie listings that h...
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