Land of Diskgrinder

Sometimes I wish I could turn that off And become as one with the mouth breathers To let my inner idiot have full reign To abrogate my moral responsibility to a magic man in the sky A bearded dick on a cloud Expecting and demanding worship from the ants he corrals

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

Not soft furnishings. What biscuit thought of that? Surely marshmallow cushions or honey cushions, or even cushion cushions were first on the NPD list before pin cushions were put forward as the next wave and buzz, and, er, orkut.

Keeping up with the Jonzes

It's clear that all of this is put up. All of this is shut up. One small instance of clear and present stranger gets less

When, in bullets, I can say this one thing or the other and make an executive summary. Of this and that, the piled up happenstance that makes a history. It doesn't correlate and it isn't causal. One hand clapping whilst a tree falls makes sound for me.

It's just the case that this certain race, that hasn't losers because they're killed, hasn't got a special winner now Now, I've been about as far ahead, as I'd like to be, but there's some distance between let's take an aside where I tell you about Bëbe, the ice cream in the desert. Travelling in Albonia was, in detailed memorandums, an implicit paean of unrequited love. A bitter turkey twizzle of wrestling with cats and dogs. Whether it's ok to be past broken due to shaking lily getting less etiolated, and then blooming in the 10w light bulb glare of that particular twat, that's as maybe. Still, it gets down to this, I left my keys in Albonia

Must stop writing past midnight

The purpose of heavy things is to get to the bottom of valleys So what's the purpose of gravity?

1000 words a day It may take some time working up to that, but then the figured climb may take some reasoned acclimatisation there It's not like I can think of anything that would engender 1000 words of coherent thought Back up and beholden to the reek of conscionable ideals, each less well than the last That's an overuse of the intellect, right there. Why does it seem that an attribution or situation is any better told by my drunken brother safe in his cups, than me, plying the trade of intoxicated vigour. I should put a question mark after that, but have run out of cigarettes and alcohol so therefore won't. Maybe I'll revisit Albonia (link) where I managed to put in all the various wholes that weren't half summed by bright realisation. Means and averages - Darwin couldn't work out why natural selection didn't average out until it's found the bland answer to grass and tree, or the desert, is the solution: a million miles of altruistic vegetable ...

Introduced by fuck weevils, this phone has all the features of this other phone, but with added sweaty importuning It has more features, but like a face, doesn't really require them It has bigger cream and more vanilla. And this is supposedly asked for. Therefore it wins the fuck out of the competition the other phone didn't enter

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