Eyes are throbbing in their sockets, damned cats causing trouble, outside more than inside but the effects are far-reaching, all the way onto my damned sofa. Headache's killing me, and the switch from sleeping to insomnia is a bitch. Evil visions at night, sometimes during the day, too, too much imagination, too small a pipe for release, too many e-mail messages to write in one day, if I cared less about the quality I could be done in no time and go on with my life like other people do, but no, I have to take my work too seriously, why should I care when no-one else seems to. Phone calls, now e-mail is down, great, and we've lost local control of the box, so there's nothing I can do except bear the brunt of the users' anger. That or buy guns. Tweet tweet tweet. I still don't see how it really matters. Is this the first sign of me being too damned old to use the Internet? Hell, I still capitalize Internet. Is there some reason why I should care... ow. ow. ow. Someone get this icepick out of my skull, I'm not Trotsky, I look too much like Lenin. So much writing to do, too many things to talk about, reunion, data loss, cats, voracious media consumption, nightmares turning my leathery mind into ropa vieja, maybe if I just poke a hole in my skull and let some of it run out onto the keyboard it'll suffice for now. Hey, if I yank out the icepick...