It's 10.30pm and I'm tired, just in from a work do... skin itching from spending too long in the same set of clothes, smelling vaguely like deep fried fish and stale smoke.

I'm contemplating the perilous emotional state that enables writers to write. Not too happy, not too sad. A bit of unhappiness can actually provide fruitful. Discomforting situations sometimes create the most vivid of images - but too sad makes the pen too weightsome - too great a burden to carry.

Happy makes for ease of putting words on paper - but often they are lesser words - too easily bought - shallow and trite.

I'm going to have a shower and go to bed.