If - and it's not really more than a smoky dream at the moment, but I have to believe in it - I can get to Liverpool, I can change.
Don't have to be this strange awkward part-time goth any more; very tempted to turn into less comedic version of Ultra and Neon from the Boosh. Either way, I can change direction. Even only a little, would be good. I'm tired of not being able to be bothered to put makeup on.
If - if - I get there, I can take my books with me. My books. My Virgin Encyclopaedia of Eighties Music and my Rip It Up And Start Again and my Death Discs and my Punk Diaries and my A-Z Of Record Labels and all the other things currently sitting on a shelf just above my head, and they won't be the music books I have no time to read, they'll be the things I use for research. I wonder, do you know how magic that is?
They're going to let me write some of those essays. I mean, the ones that have been sitting in my head, developing, changing, since I was maybe thirteen. I've got a future, and it's possible that somewhere in it is an essay comparing the New Romantics to the Romantic poets. (I'm sure I worked it out once, so I could probably work it out again.)
Anyway. Had counselling this morning. Left early. Happy.