wheels within wheels within wheels

...and text within text within text. it's gotten so obscure now that i can't read my own writing. there are levels and layers to this essay (not in a nice way). text means the city, it means stories about the city, it means ways of looking at stories about the city, it means the master plan for the city, and it also means plain bloody text. i am having mental flashes of smeared newsprint every now and again, and when i go back to read a paragraph i wrote just two hours ago, it seems just as blurry as said newsprint. and no, it ain't the lenses.

plus, this essay is robbing me of my wit. i have made 5 really bad jokes in succession, worse than usual, worse than inky and my standard bad joke standard (see i did the text in text thing again). it's also robbing me of time with my precious mum, who is being the darlingest thing ever. i have turned her from a suburban bong aunty into a lone-walking city slicker. today she told me things about covent garden i didn't know, and unashamedly ate 2 ben's cookies. there's hope for her after all, methinks. the essay is also preventing those rare moments of respite in my room on the 7th floor, with the 2 big windows, which grows dearer subconsciously, as the minutes rush me towards the time i must leave it, sanitised and bereft of my traces, for a strange dark one with a vaulted ceiling, 2 skylights and a heartbroken homeowner (i have a feeling there's a blogpost about that in the near future).

but this essay is the last bit of work i can legitimately pretend to be doing in this studio space. after this, i have to act as if i'm dying to move on to new horizons, dissertation or not. dying to say goodbye to these red bricks outside my window and these curious bridges that lead to nowhere. the safe pub around the corner and the dear cubbyhole on the 2 and a halfth floor.

i need to fall in love anew. any prospects, i wonder?