Land of Diskgrinder

I was almost a proper mathematician. Pure, of course (fuck that grubbling around in stochastic shite). I did the graph theory and the algebraic topology . I can tell you how to catch a rubber band around a doughnut manifold , but with symbols and proofs. So, I have this analytical way of dissecting everything I spend time looking at. And then being right. That's annoying.

Fairly ok

I have to admit I'm in something of quandary here. I'm a complete, fundamentalist atheist. I brook no religious guff, and have minimal respect for the idea of any authoritarian (responsibility abrogating) deity up on the celestial pole; perched like a glowering crow on the conical point of believer's concentrated hopes (so that's a pole with a cone on it then). However, I have religious friends, and friends who have fathers as vicars - and they're all really nice . So, I'm British, and politeness is more important than principle always (and I could give a sound philosophical basis for that, but that may be presumptuous of me). So I'll wring my hands and hope I haven't upset you too much when I tell you the core of your life, your most cherished belief is, to me, on a par with animism, astrology, and the belief that black cats and ladders can affect your life profoundly. I don't want to piss you off, you all seem like really nice guys, exceptin...

As you all know. Each of you have your own spiky thorns in your metaphoric pants. Clearly, you need to divest yourselves of the spiky-thorn-pant thing. How should we do that? I hear you ask. In fact demand. Here's my to-do list of GTD spiky-thorn-pant issue resolution: Download the latest GTD application to your iPhone Fiddle with that for about an hour: set some contexts; pinch some overviews; swipe some goals; above all, do that lip-sucking typy touchscreen thing inputting all your to-dos in before you realise it synchs with OmniFracas Download OmniFracas Marvel at its intuitive interface Don't open it for a month; shit, now it's expired Zero inbox your inbox Read every email in the trash Print out the tiny list paper foldy thing to-do list Realise you're not a twat Screw it up and throw it in the fire (if you wrote anything on it you will get a MOMENTARY sense of closure) Send yourself increasingly sweary post-dated emails Stack bills behind the bigg...

Tiny eye that sees little in this narrow purview. Mainlining fighting series of major highs. Spam.

Is the way I wend the troubled way between getting enraged by the indifferent sprawl of shit happenstance and the standing wave of clear purpose. My lack of words to describe this, this thing that fucks and shits and cunts can't really, really make that clear. How fucked up this is. Days walking, days wanting. Days without any personal filling up, just one more day of being. Existing, and finally flattening that out in a lithium way. Take the corners off, round down the edges. Make the serrated blunt. One more, little more, fucking sanded down blank acceptance. Cannons made out of grit and twigs, raised over the head, eyes not seeing below the walls. One more, little more, in the continuing retinue of bollocks.

I lost him in the mall. We walked over the bridge into the rusty iron maw of East Village Kicker Emporium, the local commerce cancer in the middle of a winding of roads and motorways (we took the subway that smelled of piss and paper litter). And once past the destitute orcs ("will settle blood-feud for coin") and elf whores we were inside the heated interior. Big metal cabinets stood at every corner, each filled with heat bricks - because it's just this side of too cold for the clothes you chose. And he disappeared in the crowd. Leaving me again.

In that swaggering stride, trousers hitched up over sweaty belly. There I have the usual mind to flick from one easy leach to another easy creature. Fuck off, smiling cunt, you have more bricks up your arse than a rectally satisfied architect

because I said so

dry and bone that it is Get your twitter mosaic here.