I've been neglecting you, I know. I am ashamed, you who have given me so much and asked so little for the past 18 months, you have enriched my life and brought me friends, and new passions and knowledge and hours of amusement.
I've been in a mood, a mood full of the echoing windswept emptiness of a moor in winter (and I've lived in Yorkshire in January, I know about these things), a bleak mood, a sour-tempered Heathcliff of a mood, tho' hopefully less abusive.
I cannot tell you the reason, dear Blog, because you will, through no fault of discretion, but through your very nature, share it with the Internet, and I am not ready for the Internet to be privy to such personal things. I realize that you may have trouble believing this, given some of the things I have freely told you of, freely and vulgarly in some cases. But there is is. This is my limit.
And because of this constraint, this bleakness, I have slighted you for content, fallen into the most shameful cheap cat blogging and some really shocking fleece displays as a distraction from my dessicated words, my uninspired spirit, my shallow insights. While it is possible that the world presently has no gifts of watermelon, no post office harmony, no joyful street fairs, no poetry, it is far more likely that I just cannot see them.
Please know, dear Blog, that I am aware of my deficiencies and am striving mightily to overcome them. I will do better by you as soon as I am able. In the meantime, I remain, as always,