Thursday, January 22, 2009


What is an interim? Or a new beginning for that matter? It's consequence of failure, like a match lit as the candle gutters. Among other things, that's the reason we hate Christmas. It ticks like clockwork counting. You remember last Christmas, weren't we in Dubai on the beach? Yeah, yeah, we were talking about James. He's got a kid now you know. Really? Yeah. And Philipa's in New York. I know. Funny old world, eh? So what are you doing now?


I'll tell you what I'm doing. The same struggling that a larvae does when it's blind and hungry. I feel in danger and random. My dreams are like refrozen ice cream, molten and hard and molten again. I'm the same as before and yet worse because I'm running in a race with different rules but I'm wearing the same shoes. What the hell does that mean? That's the point. You probably have a better idea.

It's cold, mouldy, has light outside. It stinks of cigarette smoke and the recesses of man. It gleams at night with pasty white and blinks blue. That's the Now. So where will you be next year? What's the yard stick?


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