derelict church going into Stockport. Syringes and white cider cans ago-go……mossy underwear…….used prophylatics. Stockport…….I think I love you…..or was that loathe?????
#1:32 and losing my grip. Or somehow just keeping it. The six turret roulette wheel rolls round and round - and which chamber lands where pretty much amounts to nada in the greater schema. Click, Click, Boom.
#2:I'm one of the lucky ones. Then again, luck is not necessarily good.
#3:I want to make my world as beautiful and as interesting as possible. Even half way or where ever I actually am on the journey towards that very goal (the long internal voyage towards an uncertain terra nova) - I find it impossible to converse about about the finer details with most people most of the time. I have a lot of weird and intense shit rattling about deep in here (crAnium bAckstAge) and I find its adequate verbal conveyance quite impossible-consequently half sketched dreams run amok, howling at whatever displaced the moon. Admittedly, this can be very funny-but I'd be in a lot of trouble if I told you what I was actually thinking. Really..............I would.
#4:If you've ever wondered whether you're normal..........its a pretty sure bet normal people don't ask that question. Weirdness's hymen is well and truly torn asunder by the mere posing of that particular question.
#5:I am evidently an alien (people refer back to your preferred etymological word horde).
#6:Christ I thought I'd be cruising on autopilot - well beyond the event horizon of this pervasive mindset as I approached the hallowed cusp of early middle age...........it was never my intention to still be the purveyor of high quality teen angst bullcrap during that point of my life where I find my first folicles turning a paler shade of polar bear.
But I is what I is.
(Can't go forward.
Can't go back.
Can't move sideways.
Can't see myself in a professional capacity
Can't face being an even more dropped out bum.
My liver won't take it.
The old realities are falling.
I'm haunted bad by real bad memories&the phosgene burn of AWOL acolytes leaves fading traces traces on the implacable declension of my minds eye's Kodak reel.
(Mr Kodak shot a photo. Mr Kodak shot a film. Mr Kodak shot himself)
I'd like to be the auteur of my own heroic personal narrative(s) rather than being the mere unconcious and unknowing spewer of someone/something elses - taking those thoughts to be my own and acting accordingly. But maybe that fantasy is my very own personal flavor of the viral affliction that afflicts us all?).
I can't really explain and I need somebody somewhere to understand.......