Today, as has been the case for several days now I have suffered from the melancholy that seems to appear under very exact circumstances. A kind of despondent sadness mixed with a stratospheric hatred for all things seen.  Based on an inner realisation. The subconcious is moving north. The howling of the wolves within. The slow feet like continental plates. A hug can save you. But only if it lasts.




I'll never be perfect. And so then never good enough. Good enough for what remains a mystery. Good enough to be loved? To be in control? A man's innate genetified direction is to the top. All opposition, all failure is greeted with emotional unrest.