Not allowed. This is just something that happens. But where is it? I don’t know what to do with myself. Cheese. Fields. sunflowers with blue horizons that stretch on and on over the golden corn - rainclouds mustering breath at their apex and a moisture that you can only taste and not smell. world, spinning and breathing. breath, everywhere, but not here. this is a still room, this is a living tomb that is a tomb for the living, this is the place where dreams come to rest, and oversleep and not bother waking up when they find they’ve missed their place in the text. turn to dust. i don’t like the polished floors and the walls are too bland - give me colour, something garish, something blue, something red. give me dirt and darkness. give me a fucking mcdonalds oozing clots and fatjuice and staining these very important sheets of paper. give me that cow tortured till death and buried stuffed in a dry bun and i’ll eat it without the sqeamishness in my right big toe. i can feel the rain, can taste that moisture. it’s torture. can feel the unclenching grip of my fist on my sword that isn’t there as i don’t swing it round and round above my head as i don’t slice the air. what does one do with these fragments that come out - this exercise, this sweating? can you knit a sweater out of them? can you eat them, regurgitated so? hunger. oh yes. hunger. i haven’t felt like eating in days.

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loneliness is a physical pain that hurts all over. loneliness is a physical pain that hurts all over. brain heavy with nothing. these moments come less often than before, but they still come. you can keep something in a cage you know. but it has to get out and does sometimes. these are the moments when i’m at my most honest, my most deceptive, my most profound and my most trite. and when i fit most with the world man made for himself, because i am at my most meaningless. meaningless. without meaning or purpose. we find our own purpose. this is a blessing and a curse i think. there’s too much space in the universe, and yet not enough on earth, so we end up doing nothing. drifting. drifting. sometimes i think i have no soul because it always starts with the absence to feel. why is it the happiness doesn’t seem real and the pain does? i used to have an answer for this once but i think i’ve forgotten it. i find it very hard to connect with people you know. really connect. i have to stop doing things like smoking and sleeping with people i’ll never see again because they say its bad for the physical aspect of my frame - bad for what everyone else insists is my temple, but i think should just be a car. isn’t it strange how there are so many ways to die, and yet so few ways to suffer? what does this mean? i don’t know. what does any of this mean? what does anything mean? this is me sitting in the universe - big universe, head either exploding with the weight of it all as it spins, or having the endless void and nothingness poured into it until it doesn’t swell. i feel really tired. bad joke - that isn’t funny. it’s gone on too long. you need to keep stuff like that short and to the point for it to work. i do feel really tired but going to sleep will give me guilt. i think my head is spinning and that’s why i’m tired. i’m hungry, but the last thing i feel like doing is eating. or drinking. or doing anything really. it’s as if anything there is to do isn’t worth doing. there must be something worth doing. there must be something worth. there must be something. there must be. time to collapse and close my eyes. if you think this is tedious you should see it all from where i’m standing. but i’m lying. if you think this is madness then you should see the awful stagnant sanity of the world and tell me that that’s what really makes sense. [INSERT LAUGH HERE - UPROARIOUS CANNED LAUGHTER THAT LASTS FOR TWENTY SIX YEARS. DOT DOT DOT]

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Worse things happen at sea you know. Just sit back and watch it - watch its currents, clashing against each other, making waves.

There. Doesn’t that feel better?