This is awkward.
No, I am not addressing that to blog readers as the forerunner to an oft-repeated apology about neglecting the blog and swearing to write more regularly. I think them too intelligent to be repeatedly taken for fools on such recurring and unvarying round trips.
I am neglecting the blog officially, the way I usually do, when unexpected events in my personal life have not violently beaten the living ennui out of me, at least momentarily.
Nowadays listlessness like cling film inures me from the joy of existence, nor does the fire inside register more heat than ashes in a fireplace with the odd surviving ember complacently giving up the ghost.
But here's the awkward part. Just when I'm ready to march absentmindedly through the rest of my life, resigned to pursuing everybody else's dream seeing as my own lie buried all around me in the cemetery that my memory has become, the corner of my eye detects an unexpected movement, amidst the headstones.
And a hand emerges from the ground, followed closely by its counterpart, after which the grave beneath half-heartedly surrenders its unwilling occupant, for she, apparently prematurely buried, refuses to remain therein.
Her headstone remained blank, nor did I ever dare to frivolously breathe her name while she lived, but she afflicts me enough cardiac damage upon her reincarnation to make me locate the blog again, I'll tell you that much...