I oughtn't post, really, but I may as well make the reason a tenuous topic. Where, I ask myself a lot these days, is all this time going to come for the things that matter? I've done the unthinkable, by my standards, and started to question some of the routines I've crafted so carefully over the years. Structure is so comforting, but I wonder if it is starting to do me harm. I don't have any serious complaints about what has gone so far, but I don't look forward to what now seems a very plausible future, wherein the only memories are of the two sets of walls I'm already far too familiar with. But as soon as I get halfway through any scheme, the stern pedagogue in my head counters, telling me that this is what it's supposed to be like. There's a grain of truth in that too, no doubt, but really, the brief taste of reality on nights like this fill me with a certainty that the true journey is what matters - and it must always be accomodated.