The blister on top of my fucking foot isn't helping with much, it must be said.
In random news, Ion Storm Austin has closed its doors. While that surprised nobody after Spector et al left at the arse-end of last year, there's still officially fewer companies that allow real innovation in video games. Fuck.
Memories and nostalgia are battering at my head. Reading Kieron Gillen's latest post about his last walk around Bath, I can't help but remember how I never really gave Stafford a last walk. Or a last anything, really. But then again, that didn't really end as fall apart over a period of time. The four of us scattered for a placement year, then coming back together when things had changed. First Steve's girlfriend, then Matt heading off, the dissolution of identity that was my dissertation, a brief fling with a different set of insanities to my usual, then seeing Kris for the first time in too long... then back down and away and out. People drifting away. No chance to walk the town because the town had changed, as had I. No more angry storming down the Wolverhampton Road, punching hedges and walls with equal abandon. No more post-midnight wanderings, trying to get my head together. Things had changed, and I'd already left once. The final year in Stafford, like this last year and a half, proved to me that I can't ever go back. Not really. I can't turn the clock without having the clock turn me. It's just a fucker that I can't go back and clear the memories down now, file off the harsh edges and never again be stabbed in the heart for no good reason at five in the morning. Cauterise everything in my head. But that's useless when the social relationships have already bled themselves dry all over the shag carpeting of my mind.
Next time I leave. Then, I will.