Once again I find myself broken. Each word feels like a jagged piece of glass pressed against my throat. Each thought seems disconcerting and distracted, dipped in the tar of dismay. November arrives with her misty coat. The winter chills adorn the city and love can be sometimes found in a cup of tea. I don't know whether the answers are. Truly. I began reading Kafka's diaries written exactly a century ago and I can at times feel the same, before I sleep.

Heard Kerouac's words with jazz on Sunday, after a couple of rounds of rum and smoke. People seem to dissipate around me. I felt I could look through walls but not their heads. It's strange. Everything. How songs give meaning. How conversations bundled with contradictions give colour to the clouds. There is no meaning, I overheard her say. Her finger locks easily on the handle of the mug.

Who are you, the raven says. I am no one, but a voice in your head. There are dreams which are like watercolours, when your mind is blank as a canvas. But oft I find myself so wrapped in the misery of aspirations. The cage is only a metaphor.

Your writing has no meaning, they say. I know, I know. These are just fragmented thoughts written between 8.30 and 8.45pm, in the middle of work. Just plain writing because it's so simple. Like looking at the sky, as though to check if it's still there. Alas, here I go again.