what is this metaphysical affliction i carry around; this ennui? who the hell am i and what the fuck is my purpose . . . and why should anyone care about that but me? i burden those i love with trumped up tales of misery signifying nothing.

yesterday i smashed my finger. the blood and the pressure built horrendously so that i was convinced of my existence. by the evening i understood my needlessness which transformed into utter worthlessness by this morning. i cried like a child.

time engulfs the desirous ego and the snail staircases and the stalling wind . . . this life i lead is fraught with cockeyed-wings and tempestuous things that twist simple truths about me.

instantly, like salvia, we were up and singing: chomping on our molars and reaching for the water. in the pale dawn i cried into my hands just as quickly and just as perfectly. that was friday. saturday was punishment for this terrible deed and the mexican we chose suffered equally although the lovemaking was frenetic. the oscar wilde performance on sunday threw us back to our happiness again; the sand gettin in everywhere. by monday morning i was so content that i left the house without my jumper.

these climates ridicule, we suffer, we stretch like overdosed sunflowers and complain like dead children. i am overcome by this telepathy, i am reduced to the sweat-beads on my back.

had a freakout in solitude, continued the sibling reticence, apologised to my lady for misdeeds and dilemmas. at the weeks end we discarded those realities for a brief glimpse of the beautiful and horrendous underworld: the horizon my blanket.

in a split second i am made up by attracting a child's interest: frantic playfulness and a simple dandelion. we construct these things as an afterthought.

on a hilltop overlooking the world under a seabed of stars i couldn't fathom my distance from reality. the shooting comets evaded me as the familiar jazzy whirlwind danced in my ears. what happened later can only be fully recollected in tranquility . . . because i became a stranded beetle in a mercury river.

the view from the top is lonely . .. but it IS the best view.

our history is steeped in failure and therefore our consciousness. success is a wonderful thing, but its impact is less when coveted so desperately. in times of failure our brains readjust themselves to accept the comfortable notion that tragedy is great and heroic.

having been on holiday for a week in bed and sometimes dreaming excursions, my intake of fragile human encounters continues to flourish. i am reminded by planB that "drugs can be a laugh but are too often abused. and when they are abused, the people that abuse them tend to act like a bunch of degenerate, untrustworthy, backstabbing wankers!" amen.