I sometimes worry I have developed too suffocating a taste in the arts: one which only accommodates works that mirror my internal life, however approximately, so that I may see in the fractured reflection that greets me some temporary solace, and a likely misguided hope of more permanent respite. All things in moderation, I have to repeat to myself, as I see elements of a troubling spiral that cannot lead anywhere good. Even assuming all my talk of how this is certainly not wallowing is accurate, I cannot escape the fact that I'm certainly not gaining much more from constantly revisiting the same themes and tropes. Right, the past is a minefield, I had a chance and lost it, &c. There's considerable material to sift through here, some of it genuinely worthwhile, but perhaps not enough to become the sum total of one's existence. Beyond all the philosophical arguments is the simple fact on the ground that it gets, well, boring. Here, then, is to a sliver of new ideas and thoughts making their way through the curtain I seem to have erected without knowing. And who knows, perhaps the real road to recovery is to hear of other lives, other voices, reminders as they are that the future is never quite as rigid as one might fear.