A rebel without a clue.

Have I developed a little writers block or is it me becoming an overnight alcoholic again? Since returning from Germany on Sunday/Monday coffee, dog walking, breakfast and mid afternoon boozing is all I can account for. Dan's unfortunate death reminds me alcohol solves none of anyone's problems but might create a legacy we're unable to see until it is far too late, and our bodies fail us with the heavy pressure we're always putting it under; yesterday I got pissed in Wetherby, returned with a kebab(for the second night running) and ate some ice cream before bed which meant I slept fitfully until nine am then disappeared for another coffee at Filmore & Union. Something clicked and reminded me this is not the new me, but some creeping in of the disappearing ego so I must deal with this devil before I leave for Ireland in the wrong mindset. Returning to further research the routes I could possibly take walking the west coast the weather has turned windy from the west ...

For a few days my finger has been poised but I've hung off writing, but my grief yesterday prompts me to speak of a tragedy I knew would happen eventually yet was  UN- ready to accept at all. The death of Dan Laythope was such a shock that I barely believe I could cry like that over someone not family and rarely seen enough as an erstwhile character, confident and friend. Yesterday I tried hard not to let this shadow to push me into drunken bewailing or fury. What a cruel hand fate is. I surely dreamt Dan died while in Holland but never registered it at all. It is only a dream and really dreams mean nothing; but Dan still laid dead for 3 weeks being reduced to an atomic state in a summer quite unlike another. Every time I returned to NorthBar I made sure I asked after him or said hurried hellos while I whisked away from Leeds in my remunerate need. In the long past and change of seasons, years and a decade, at least, while NorthBar became another institution unlike t...