I feel empty.
I feel like a Cadbury creme egg that's had its sweet gloop tongued out by an anteater.
I feel like a Stereophonics jewel case without its CD, just some pastry crumbs and a greasy fingerprint.
I feel like a room without a roof nor walls nor furniture nor that family of spectacle-wearing grouse that I swear I saw living here last week.
I feel like the innermost soul of a television talent show: a yearning, brown vacuum of lost intent and forgotten dreams.
I feel like the inside of a balloon.
I've barely gone a day this past couple of weeks without a deadline approaching in the next hour, whether that means show editing, or hitting a flyering spot, or meeting up with someone, or - indeed - sleeping. The fringe was like a hurricane, or at least, a very stern gale. I'm now untethered, flapping gently in a dull breeze, waiting for someone to blow me.
Jeez, I really fancy a creme egg.
Anyhoo, I need a new project. And that project is about to hit like a hurricane train full of creme eggs and grouse.
Watch this space for Slow Reader, coming to a Manchester near you (i.e. Manchester) (i.e. it's a new thing that's about to happen somewhere in Manchester and it's been months in the planning)...