It was dark this morning.

I found nothing to do this rainy morning. I tried to revel in the atmosphere by listening to a lot of British music (no prizes for guessing the type) but the time stretched too long, so I sat myself down to write. Yes, not to read but to write. I am still trying to run before I have walked enough. Words are a luxury that cannot be utilised too carefully. There are so many. An endless well of pretty little symbols. However, just like wine, they can get you drunk. Too many words that make too little sense. I do not simply want to be a craftsman (or craftsperson, or craftswoman) - someone who can simply write the language well. I want to be an artist. Haha. But how can I say that without risking falling flat on my face? It is not worth the risk.