selkie: (Default)
ETA: I have scads of Renaissance music -- bring on the shaums, bring on the citterns, I gotcher branles and gaillards right here -- why is Kit Marlowe so seemingly partial to Florence + the Machine? Inexplicable. 

Now I have four projects going, because that's completely appropriate. Do I ever finish anything? Hahaha, that's funny. 

The insomnia isn't helping. I'm being visited by Spuckles, the Newfie of Dysthymia ([livejournal.com profile] ashlyme, he's Shuck's erratic, hormonal cousin. You can tell him because he's got a hankie tucked in his spectral collar) and pecking out maybe fifty words at three in the morning, which is super efficient, let me tell you. 

I suppose the point of this post is that I hate the tug-of-war between mental health, adult life, creative output, and medication. When I'm unbearable as a human being and an asshole to my wife and kid, I can pull pages and pages from my veins like nothing. Whether they are good, useful, valuable pieces of art we could argue until morning; but at least the words come. 

It's a thing.

Also, it's autumn soon. FIVE POUND BAGS OF SALT FOR THE ENTIRE READERSHIP OF THIS ELLJAY.

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