2 in a row.

lame!

i was reading this: http://www.neilgaiman.com/journal/journal.asp and the question of gaimans' genius brought back a memory.

once, long ago, someone i know described me as not quite a genius, but close, certainly up there. at the time i laughed, which is what i do with compliments, and i'm sure that at the time i thought it was affectionate and heartfelt. i think i still do.

but it doesn't explain why i'm sitting here, with my soup and my sad music blaring from my stereo and my hope that i'll be able to write something, anything, tonight.

i don't think i'm a genius, i don't even think i'm that smart. i'm good at bluffing it, and i sometimes have ideas.

but none of it really helps explain why i'm miserable.

that's pretty much the crux of the matter.

i think the sadness is warping into melancholy just now anyway, exactly the right time to go and write some of a victorian ghost-love story.