But the day I can't shrug off a twinge of self-pity, is the day I'm washed up for keeps.

I had an all-Fear of Music iPod, just versions of the 11 songs from the record. No other songs allowed.

My heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.

The past is still visible. The buildings haven't changed, the layout of the streets hasn't changed. So memory is very available to me as I walk around.

I've discovered that like every writer, I'm helpless MYSELF - and that means I find myself unconsciously or semi-consciously repeating motifs and themes and even using certain words or images recurrently in my work, no matter how much I think I'm starting fresh. But I've always admired artists who made a specific sport of trying to visit different kinds of genres or mediums or modes - not just 'western' or 'detective', but comedy/tragedy, epic and miniature, traditional/experimental.

Waves, sky, trees, Essrog - I was off the page now, away from the grammar of skyscrapers and pavement.

You can't be deep without a surface