From the horriffic depths of magenta squalor--much like a bile duct, actually--he glares upward and goes eep

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I used to work in a bookshop, long ago. A recovery bookshop, actually, which was more than a little ironic considering the relationship I had at that time with my brain and the various chemicals that could make it do interesting things. I say you haven't quite lived until you've handed someone their bronze 20-year recovery medallion while tripping balls.

That's all behind me now, but as the famous sage has said, wherever you go, there you are, so I've still got the same brain, haven't I, and even if it's no longer the quivering science experiment it once was, every so often it'll go tits up and then I've got to hang around and wait for it to get its act together. Plasticity takes time, people!

Big sigh.

Anyway, the Spanish-language translation of Sumerian Pot is due out any day now, which ought to be good for a laugh, and there are other things percolating here and there in vague and dissatisfying ways that haven't got any punch, Gerald, are you even listening? You're not going to keep them entertained with promises unless things are exploding somewhere, and if you keep frightening off the pyrotechnicians this whole circus is going under.

So much work to do, so little inclination.

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eep? Can't think of a better way to sum up this organ and synapse adventure called life.

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