Which is just a little better reporting that it is thus within.
After Hilton. Roger, that is. I should explain the melancholy sub-heading above: I am what used to be called a manic depressive, but manage the condition most of the time without the aid of tablets, though when I was younger it was much harder.
Both my parents had bouts of the black dog too. I didn't stand a chance; or rather, it was art that saved me. Just the crippling lack of self-belief that held me back. Getting a contract with Random House seemed to be the liberating factor, but I failed to come up with anything.
I think the dots emphasise the surface, but the inchoate backgrounds often impart a space that is ill-defined. We are all monads and motes in a greatly extended ordered chaos. The paradox holds. It is a surprise when you look into the yawning abyss.