raining like oxford novembers, a climatic gut-laugh at those who remember when we had real seasons. or perhaps just a reminder that I have work to do before the autumn truly arrives.

[I’m sick of the cult of archness, the “I am writing and this is what I am writing and oh aren’t I so self-aware of this writerliness.” While it’s fine if you regard verbal contortion as art, it falls well short of the literary. And yes, Dave Eggers, that fucking means you. And your mates.]