I drifted through today in the normal way. I'm sure no one noticed I wasn't there inside.

I feel like there are a million things all shouting for my attention inside my head, a million ideas crying out to be heard. But all I can catch are little fragments. The rest is as good as lost in the cacophony of ideas. I need those ideas; no ideas mean no writing which means no publishing which means no money.

Every so often today I'd realise a little idea had snuck into my head, and I had been thinking about it without even realising it. Sometimes it would be half-formed, almost a concrete, lasting entity, before my noticing it chased it away. I came home with everything rushing through my head, and nothing staying there. Images flew by so fast, giving me a quivering, shaking feeling, one that makes me feel as if I am sick or excited or both.

I've only ever felt like that stepping into the unknown. A quaver is as best I can describe it, a quaver that vibrates through my whole body spasmodically, translating itself even into my breath and speech.

So I'm at home and my mind is still a blank. Or still a torrent, there doesn't seem to be any difference.