I feel as though my life has been spent (for many years now) weaving in and out and around the dead.

I was about to write another paragraph but will be late for work if I do. I just don’t seem to have the time to process or write down my thoughts. No matter. They’re just thoughts and feelings anyway. They aren’t real. It’s a bit like that old philosophical chestnut ... do they only exist if there is someone around to hear/receive them. (That makes me think and wonder about the significance of religious confessions...just off on a slipstream there...)