2026-01-16
The words aren’t coming and usually that’s my fault. I wad up my sense holes with dopamine doped fluff and the ooze of it bungs up my brain. I lose the element of surprise so I can’t write anything interesting at all. The writing I have done in the last week or so has been the drip drip of mucus out from the congested sinus and onto the page. Scenes I’ve poked at move glacially slowly through their outlines without interest.
2026-01-13
For a week Berlin’s been covered in ice. It’s an inch thick on the roads and the bike lanes and the pavements, and it’s been there so long it’s black and mottled and hard like a mineral deposit. They don’t grit or salt here. There’s a dispute about who should do the gritting and the salting, between the city and the Ordnungsamt and the street cleaners they contract. Verdicts differ by jurisdiction so some neighbourhoods are slippier than others. Halfway along a bridge over the Spree there’s a border between two districts and sure enough there’s a crisp line where the sheet ice stops and the gritted slurry starts.
