Monday 8 November 1999

Preships ding banquio.

meta-date: Mon Nov 8 06:38:00 1999

All change.  No regrets.  The wheel turns.  Nothing to do.   One of the books I ordered yesterday is unavailable.  Staccato.  Rhythm of a machine gun.  Cor blimey guv'nor - strike a light.  Everyone is a bit queer except me and thee, and sometimes I wonder about thee.  Reality is whatever you think it is.  Books full of instruction surround me, but not one of them tells me what I want to know.  Gareth likes men's tits (or was that mountains...).  I have about 3 hours until work.  Dancing in circles.  Wild abandon.  The moon above looks down.  If it isn't behind clouds. XIII. Abandon hope.  Enter not, lest ye be bored silly. Blackened stumps.  Matches burnt entirely.  Fingertips sore from holding too close to the flame.  Pain.  My party trick.  Everyone has to be good at something.  Blisters.  Only a couple, unburst.  It matters not.   Shouldn't do that trick when the match has a trace of wax on it - burns longer and hotter.  Circumflex. Circumspect.  Dance around the point.  Never say it.   Taboo.  Lying pale and wounded.  Waiting for a saviour.  I cannot save you - I can't even save myself.  Drowning.  Whirlpool sucks me in.   Black hole - spaghetti effect.  Stretching out to infinity.  Got to close when admiring the beauty of the corona.  Time stands still.  This is going to be a long week.  Damn it all.  Give up - it's too much effort.  Better the devil you know.  All the wrong reasons.  Desperation.  Obsessive fixation.   Strobe light memories - flashes then darkness.  Still - no motion visible.   Annihilation.  Anyone for a cuppa?  Who's mum?  Dragged down into hell.  Fires of torment.  At least it's not cold.  An empty shell sits here writing - pouring out what little is inside - what does it leave me?  The emptiness I feel is in my heart and gut - some of this comes from those places - rather than purely from my head.  Grey outside.  Overcast.  Not raining.  The trees have nearly lost their leaves - still some stubborn remnants remain.  Won't give up.   Sooner or later they will fall.  Everything does. A solitary bird sits on a dead tree.  The only trace of life visible from my window. Sitting here looking sideways while typing - I will get a sore neck doing this, but without doing so I cannot admire the beauty of nature while I do this.  The full cycle visible.  The left and right hand path. All is natural.  Time to start taking the right hand path - the left has brought me nothing but pain.  Law of Three.  Anarchism at it's finest.   Moon made of Ice.  Of Cheese.  Polystyrene.  No shapes to see in the clouds - a uniform grey with sporadic spots of darkness spread across it like the mud-stained fingerprints of a small child.  Words are a prison for meaning.  Am I inmate or jailer?