The calamity I talked of yesterday, took place in the late evening. I said I had woken up with the acute feeling of a relationship about to be wounded, but that I had put this down to a bad dream and brushed it away, in the face of my writing.
I had no idea of the whos and whats.

A treasured friendship stalled abruptly. It left me perplexed, unbearably sad and later, strangely calm. I re-read my post and was shocked at my omen. I remembered I had once predicted the break-up of familiar connections on the blog and this came about too. I have good intuition but fail to exercise it, from folly.

My writing saved me. It's elation blanketed even this despondency. My art engulfs me in a jealous way and threatens to snatch me from everyone and everything. I battle to preserve a normal routine. I go to bed thinking I shouldn't be sleeping, I should be writing.

The play is slow going, trickling like a leaky faucet but the 3,050 words or so are now a nicely-glossed up piece for a producer. And I can move on to a new scene. Words trickle steadily too, for the novel. My fictitious female character, thrives on a slight comic absurdity. I hold a psychological guilt as both works demand equal attention.

I criss-cross my mismatched characters in the imagination without slipping, using one as an escapism from the other. It's all about industry. I have been given the liberty to write creatively once more, but this second chance is brutal.