Not Thinking Straight

I was fairly unwell when I wrote the following:

In the aftertaste of hypomania (mild mania), I realise I am all trouble and bad buys. It is a chronic contexture – the long-lasting setting feel. It’s a symphony in the universe. It's titalic poetry. It's born living in a tree house. It is a broken limb not resting. It is the rest of mankind and not me. My mother asks me what does ‘titalic’ mean. It is italic and capital. It is Berlin, Madrid and Oslo. Also, money makes the world go round as coins are circular.


He will come again to judge the quick and the dead. Dear God, do what you have to do, but do it quickly. Be quick or you’ll be stuck fast. Fast, simply to magnify the Lord almighty God. We laud and honour Him. It is a hymn to Him who makes and sustains. There is a stain on the wall. All things come from you, and of your own do we give you. That is why there are yew trees in churchyards. And here, there are too many cushions – for health and for decency.