Well.

I'm back, it was traumatic to say the least, but the very essence of cathartic. Now it is over I mostly feel a bit numb. Even the delight of choosing tomorrow's socks can't rouse me from this strange sense of passionless torpor.

I think I have used up my years worth of emotion already and now I amble about in a strange sort of ghost state. It is akin to being the final awake guest at a garden party, padding about in socks on the lawns in the soft morning light with an un-tied bowtie and half a glass of tepid champagne wondering where all the other guests have gone.

I have no anger left, and even the sadness is gone, I mentally poke at it like the final bits of a creme brûlé hiding at the bottom of a ramekin, seeking some sort of response, only getting caramalised flakes of feeling. The whole experience has an edge of unreality to it all.

I just don't know what to think, apart from that similes are aces.