Off to London for a meeting when the train driver arrives

13C and dropping like a stone, rain that doesn’t know if it really wants to be sleet or hail, inbox 18 and somewhat chaotic, and I need to go deep-focus for a few hours before the phone starts lighting up.

Playing silently on the big screen is a docu on Curiosity Stream called THE INDIFFERENT AMAZING UNIVERSE, which is some full transcendental nihilism, as titles go.

Alive. Can’t promise more than that right now, but definitely alive. Morning.

Image lifted from IG @vintagepulps.

Some days start before you’re ready for them. It’s 9pm and I am looking suspiciously at the phone sitting next to me, wondering what’s next. But. It’s never boring, and it’s been years of hard work to get the point where the life is sapped out of me by 11 am soooo

It’s a peculiar life, and you’ve really got to want it.

Inbox: 10. Newsletter from Orbital Operations set for Sunday.

TREES: THREE FATES #3 is in: this is the end-of-chapter bumper, which Steven Finch/Fonografix sent overnight. He really does an amazing job.

I lost a bunch of yesterday to reviewing materials on a friend’s tv project, which I have to do again a bunch more times this week in order to pull together a coherent set of thoughts. Lucky I always have notebooks to spare. Always have notebooks to spare – I wrote an entire book of columns in super-cheap notebooks from the corner shop one time, it doesn’t have to be a fancy Moleskine.

I am frankly barely alive – my body is fighting me for the right to die – but there’s going to be another pass on the press release announcement for PROJECT KATRA today (tv things are complex on all levels, I’ve found), I need to fix the shape of BATMAN’S GRAVE 6, I have to work on at least one of the development documents on deck, fuck me it’s halfway through the month and I must make some more ground up on a tv script, and I need to clear the back room of the house. Here we go.

Inbox: 12. Listening: FOUR, Richard Skelton. Espresso: 5 and counting

Proofing BATMAN’S GRAVE 3 while the inks get finished up, which is why you’re looking at luminous Bryan Hitch pencilled art here.

Drinking watermelon juice with filtered water, super greens powder and superfruits powder and a shot of lemon juice, which is generally worse even than it sounds.

Listening to (abyss) by Pool Of Light.

It’s 12 C and dark on the Thames Delta. Inbox 10. Good morning, reader.

AUTUMN ALMANAC on mute on the big screen, IN TENEBRIS RATIONE ORGANI by Michael Bonaventure playing over the top, while I wrestle with a third draft (which is actually a first full draft) of a tv show concept document, while occasionally standing up to wipe things off the three whiteboards hanging in front of me. I’m sure things are happening on the internet, but I’m out.

(That said, I would be curious to see what’s being said about Simon Reynolds’ new piece in which he coins the curséd meme “conceptronica.” I mean, it’s not the worst stretch to surround a space I’ve ever seen. Anyone remember “The Scene That Celebrates Itself”?)

Autumn’s getting colder, and the rain is taking on that icy edge. In fact, we were hit by serious hailstones the other night. So I’ve decided to grow my beard to epic proportions and not show steel to it until spring.

Inbox: 12. Weight gain this year: I’m guessing I put on at least ten pounds, rooting my arse in this chair to write and produce two episodes of television. I walked five miles yesterday —

— when you jog past me in central London at rush hour and your body isn’t as wide as my last shit then son it’s okay to start walking normally —

— so goodbye, bread, I will miss you.

Heading into London for a full day of meetings, offline and adjusting to my new reality where I talk to other people for a living instead of typing in a box all day.

Slept 13 hours, woke up in full autumn.