You’re looking to create… something… perhaps maybe even a little big bit problematic. With regards the type and layout of your literature. Perhaps, even, a bit… … ugly in fact. That’s it. You’re always, of course, searching for that thing in you that NEEDS to create… . And you do, and you will create it again. And that’s all it will ever always take. Breaks in between. Moments of watching a certain person’s mindset work mid-conversation and on the street, wherever works best and at any given time, really – that kinda thing, I guess. The titles need to be changed up a notch, though, because, well, they do get rather cyclical in their nature. But book shops tend to do that for me, too. A brand new evaluation with regard to the titles. Waterstones, whichever. And, as per, you’ll get the days when your mind reckons: “Ah, okay, then. Maybe I’m finally done with this thing.” Of course you will. And, really, that doesn’t bother me, not one bit, I don’t think. It’s exciting. That it tends to turn itself on and off again. However, what you mainly want to be doing is achieving that singular sense of… settled and sophisticated scribbles. Prose. But it needs to take the bull by the horns and do something far greater than all of the above, actually. That’s what might just mean the world to me most, in the end. To inevitably create… … spectacular… scribbles. Scribbles that invite all separate sorts of people’s different interpretations. I need a reader to devour it for its rhythmic, descriptive and… intelligent worth. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing with it anyway.