Gah.

Sometimes writing is just like pushing a boulder up a hill, y'know? A sharp, jaggedy boulder. With crawly bugs on the underside. And a steep, bumpy hill. Full of crevasses. In the broiling sun. And your shoes don't fit right. And you keep losing your grip, and the boulder rolls right back down, rolling over your toes on the way.

Sometimes, that is, it's difficult to remember exactly why one keeps on doing this.

Ah well. Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux, and all that.