Monday night.

Tweet

It’s Monday night, time to sit in the garden behind the house as Summer tilts into Autumn with a big goblet of deeply red wine, and let an equally deep tide of melancholy wash all over me. I'm not morbid and I'm not unhappy, just melancholic. There’s sweet melancholy and a malevolent variety: I’ve been diagnosed with the former. There's thunder rumbling away somewhere in the distance and the air is heavy. The trees at the end of the garden have merged almost completely with the moon-deprived sky, and when I tilt my head slightly to the left one of the trees looks like a man peeing up against a wall.