and now

Morning. I'm behind and I can never catch up: that's how it feels sometimes. Life's too quick, short and brutal. And I have to stop for sleep and food. This marathon is almost over.

Some boxes to pack and last words to record. As if I'm covering something sacred?

I'm a really imperfect detective and I'm not the chipper Angela Lansbury type. I'm more like the lonely man version, (Hercule Poirot maybe?) sipping his whisky cynically in a random bar as he examines the other beings around him and takes a break. But he can never really take a break because people tire him out. They zap the life force from him because he's not relaxed enough, he's always talking to people but never fully connected. Aw, that's so sad, right.

Well, it's ok. I'm past the deep brooding whiskey point hopefully. And the mystery is less mysterious certainly.