Loxias is sad this morning. He is sitting in his office staring out of the window at a place he has struggled to put up with, and failed. He is wearing a suit, ready for a press conference, he looks at his To Do list, he thinks in dread of a long dry stifling summer ahead.

Loxias is fearful about the future, about the strength of tensile materials — like humans are. Loxias was sobbing yesterday, after a sweet and soothing conversation even, while dark was falling in the room, he even screamed, like a child who had just lost a parent. “We have achieved nothing here, except getting this stupid cat” — who was poignantly asleep at the time. “Enough with conclusions, what are we going to do?”, a call for action, what Hamlet is struggling to avoid.

Loxias is trapped in the future. Loxias is tired of persevering and rationalising and bearing it with a smile. Loxias feels alone and fearful of the future this morning, the part of the future that matters most. He is already tired of the past, of advice, of patience.

This is not an anniversary post, as you might think it would be: I only realised while writing this that it’s four years today in this miserable exile that has corroded us inside. I wrote this as an exercise in self-pity and as yet another gimmick to muster strength.


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