I'm cleaning my desk. It's random and filthy. Apparently office desks carry more harmful bacteria than the average toilet seat. I believe it. Somehow I got by without that bit of information for 10 years. How many sandwiches have I put on my desk while answering the phone?

So much passes below my radar! With this daily tearing myself out of sleep to plunge into overexposed stupor at work... how's it possible to apprehend the stuff of life in the face of business?

My desk occupies the northeasternmost corner of the third floor, 1 Liverpool street, London, simultaneously the most cosmopolitan, secular, private, exclusive & expensive city I've ever lived in. I used to think I was lucky to live here, but now I'm just tired.

I stopped working a few days ago after I handed in my notice of resignation. Now I waste time. Waiting for my month notice period to expire. Each hour is dulled by too much internet and caffeine. So I write.

Art may not save the world, but it seems to do the trick for me. More artists would, perhaps make the world saveable.