Tuesday, 6 November 2012


I should stop writing. Earlier in the year, or it may even have been last year, I came up with a plot for a novel. It involved Oxford Tories sexually abusing mentally-ill people. Think Bullingdon Club meets da Salo. Now, about a third done, I am going to have to shelve it. It is a minor irritation for me personally when I compare it to the vilenesses done to innocents that have come out over the last couple of months. I am beginning to worry about life imitating art. No matter what disgusting abuse of privilege and power I imagine, it invariably comes true. I need to stop imagining, lest my brainwaves act like butterfly wings.

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