3 sentences, a comma and a colon

Reality was traded in. All that seemed like a dream became part of the waking world, and all that was real turned into something less believable. Music took the foreground: it was the only thing that seemed complete enough to capture the feeling.

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what?! the lyrics are better on these tunes, happier times. the beats are funky.

spyro & mak 10 on rinse.fm

the underground is evolving, london is creating the future. these beats remind me of amon tobin, but they're fresh from other producers. they're on 57 of 150 tunes. this is a hardcore display of musical depth. where does all the music come from?!

music has become so easy to make with computers and software that a whole load of potential producers can now try their hand at making tunes, and some of the stuff they're making is utterly superb. when I hear tunes like the ones they're playing tonight - new to my ears - that's when I feel enthralled by music. it's like an adventure of some sort.

What on earth must I have been thinking, and how on earth did I end up doing such a thing? The stress gets too much: the emotional will eventually manifest itself in the physical, and when that happens, you're totally fucked, because a feedback loop is created.

A feeling of grogginess is the only comfort. Let the muscles relax and let that brain untangle. And when that happens, the creativity can flow once more. All the other shit is revealed as mere stupidity.

Wanted

I'm having ridiculous mindthings going on this evening, and I put it down to more than the weird stuff that didn't happen today, and which left me with an urge to make weird things happen myself. I have to get this out of my system here, rather than by putting it in an email to somebody else, because if I did that, then I'd be left wondering what happened after I pressed the 'send' button: as it goes, I know exactly what happens to this when I press the 'publish post' button, because I can see it.

The question that struck me the other day as I lay in bed, and which still lingered with me yesterday was this: why is it that, when faced with death, we fear for our lives? I know of nobody who's able to give it all up for the sake of doing nothing. When lying paralysed with pain, death should be more desirable, but it actually becomes less desirable. That's where a lot of the pain comes from.

And with that highly unoriginal piece of poorly-worded wondering, I'll move on. I want to move on: I want to keep moving, and never stop moving. I sometimes tire of moving, but one of the great pleasures in life is to move around, and then to pay all of the old things a visit. When I play records I don't remember, I realise that a moment I've lived before was lost to oblivion, and now is my chance to live another moment, but capture it this time with my primed senses.

Now, with that fleeting moment of pop nonsense, I'll move on again. Or backwards. I chose to write this instead of an email because the personal nature of communication has started to worry me too much and I'm retreating into a different world where my communication is barely noticed, but stands more honestly, as if to say: "I only exist because I happen to be a way to pass the time". While some people have certain projects in mind, others just meander.

Scribbling words that I'll never read again is almost like listening to a record that I'll quickly forget, although the opportunity created is still the same. What passes through me now, and what passes me by today... I may someday cross paths with it at some point down the line and find some sort of interest. But for now, it's just boredom.

Have you ever needed to iron seven shirts?

It took me right back to another time, and I started composing an advertisement in my head. I want to advertise myself again, but this time I want somebody to respond to the advert. It's no fun when the publicity's so poor that you're left on the shelf. Imagine that...

I can't think of what to eat for dinner, but I can write nonsense easily

I click on your profile pic whenever it pops up on my homepage, in the hope that when I'm transported to your page, your page will have transformed, and you'll be there instead of a facebook page, and somehow you'll be real and not just an image on the screen. This is the stuff of science fiction. I click on your profile pic and you walk right out of the screen and into my room, and facebook has become fully interactive. The URLs have led me to the real version of you and not just to some virtual resource.

But if that happened, then I'd have to be the only one to possess such technology, because imagine if  I was busy hoovering my house and suddenly you clicked on my profile pic, and I was whisked away from the housework and into your monitor, on my way to your own private realm? Would I get a warning, so that I had time to turn the hoover off and put it away? Imagine the chaos that would happen if everyone started being transported around the place?

I can see the London Eye from my bedroom window, I can see it clearly, but I can't get there easily. And if I look at a picture of it on my computer, then I have two copies to look at, but I'm still no closer to it.

And if all of this was a dream, then would you want to wake up and get on with life, or would you be happy to just continue what you're doing? To be honest, until somebody walks out of my screen and into the same plane of reality that I'm inhabiting, I won't believe that this is anything more than a trick involving mirrors. And if you do walk out of that screen, then I really will question reality.

And so on...