Land of Diskgrinder

Body: Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle. It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine. It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology. Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache). I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contr...

Title: Just nipped back to get my keys Body: Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going). Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell: Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations That's good.

Title: Cometary lag festival Body: Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other, And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face) That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children. The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between). All happy then, indescribable joy descends. Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.

Stub for continued

More than one quorum. All of them beset by angels and supported by demagogues. Something well said, something not said. Did that answer? No. Listen to some concrete. It is reinforced by a steely disregard for Eric Cantona. And jam.

Counting on things

I'm not religious or spiritual but I am superstitious. I have particular regard for coincidence. I know it's base statistics, however the forward blush of embarrassment forecast is anathema

Stub

whilst i, in my cups, say one thing or another. Perhaps you will listen. My best and oldest friend is ill, and I don't know what to say or do or be or stand off. See, that's the considered and always forefront British irony that gets in the way. Even though he's there. Even though I wished I had that outsider chic (but without one half of family murdered) Passive voice: it's the case that I can't say