This....
...is getting dire.
The little people in my head are by turns catatonic, or chaotic. There is no happy middle ground (sponsored by Prozac) where they are 'well-adjusted' and 'productive' members of society.
I imagine them to be like the Troglodists in Delicatessen - buzzing around stealthily in odd little outfits and waiting to come out when it gets dark.
As you can see (or not, as it were), I yearn to write something that doesn't contribute a single blasted point towards my KPIs. But it is all over the place, or stuck. Or stillborn. And all I have left are my silent monologues performed in the LRT- which would probably amuse/bemuse/alarm fellow commuters, except, luckily for me- they're all mostly catatonic themselves.
nads went at 16:10