funky 0034/35

Nothing fell out of my fingers when I sat to type the thought that had just flown through me. I picked up the sentence and threw it into the syllable counter. 21. The Lotto Numbers didn't come up properly tonight, there's music but not much sense in words.

Found connection

Momentarily lost, but recently retrieved, now the noughts and sticks are flying with more intent than a wayward missile at a misdirected gathering of layabouts and thoughtless drifters. The new information is on its way.

The clouds came to hide the sun and some rain fell again: the change came to signal that the time was different, and people left. More on the way. But no more words for the time being. Just these ones.

belly full of gas

Belly full of gas and mass, the roundness is big and sore and it's the only comfort on offer. A day when I returned to the castle and remembered what I was doing when I last played the game seriously, the rain fell today just as it did back then, there was boredom and a sense of no escape. When it stopped I went out.

There's nothing more to be told, the nonsense was stemmed momentarily. While the little duck sits but doesn't quack and the files slowly vanish the wrist sits awkwardly against the shell of the computer and the eyes shut as the mouth opens and the belly full of gas threatens to expand further. We made it. All the parts made it to the end, and now comes the fun part, here's to the fun.

Here's to the fun, I'll pour some more bubbles. If something's too good to be true, then it probably is. Here's to the fun, and to the inevitable opposite.

Spirit and heart

It'll never be enough to say to me that everything's worth it: you can't do this shit alone. And that's when I realise that I need to reach for the phone, but something stops me, a sense of futility grabs my hand before it can grab the phone, a sense of paralysis stops me from reaching out, and I just turn my head and look, and I'm lost, and all of a sudden I have no idea how to behave or what to think.

When I look in front of me, I see a mirror, and in the mirror I see someone I don't know, and I don't know how people see that person but, somehow, he's equated with me. 

Time to decide on something to do.

I clicked on your profile pic cos I wanted to see you, but when I got to your page you weren't there, there was nobody there, just traces of people who'd stopped by, signs that pointed to your existence but little else. I wanted to jump out of the other end, into your world of existence, but I was trapped in a different realm, far removed from where you are, which is far away from where I am, there are two different worlds here and all that connects us is a space of illusion and image.

No longer do I believe what lies on the other side of the screen. For all the illusions in the nonexistent space between us, this is the only thing that's real any more.

disgrace

THRILLER?! Getthefuckouttahere, what is this? Suddenly in a posh club with coked-up barmen ringing a bell and clapping their hands, what the fuck?! And commercial hip slop, dropped like there was no mixer, some well mixed but ultimately horrific electro, what am I doing? I'm going home, that's what I'm doing: I'm looking for a reggae soundsystem, but it's the same story here as in Spain, there's no dread. No dread, just happy go lucky singing about social injustice, it's the same story as in Spain: where's the dread? The dread? If this is a playground, then there should be some funky. And if there's none of that, then I'm not having any of it.

skrev on my væg

Dansk! No more will I write, because I've said enough and the clue is obvious. But I'm not in Danelandercountry, oh no, the jordbær are called frutilla where I am, or at least outside they are, not here where I am at the moment, lost in a world of speeding bytes that get magically put together by the sort of wondrous code I hope to one day write. I'm practising.

And as I practise I tire, and the need arrives for me to yank myself and purge the rammed junk, here, here I say. Right here. They call it whatever, and I buy it however, they don't make it like that over here, in fact they make it so poorly that I'm making my own most days and most nights these days (and most nights). If I punctuate so well at times, it's to give you a break, a chance, something to stick a hook into and attach your rope: stay safe as you climb, my dear!

Imaginations and engineering, dream-buccaneering and sneering, cheering, drooling, oh dear, my friends lack friends and years, and some lack everything but a relationship. Tell the whole world, darling, but don't let them send you birthday cards, befriend the world but trust nobody. What pap, what piffle what nonsense nonsense nonsense likeyougiveafuck, like I write here, and as if I read through to check, the thoroughness of this lies in the lack of any plan, of any test, it's made up on the spot and preserved for centuries. I could make myself famous just by including the words "I feel" in a sentence, and maybe I could attract the attention of at least one lucky star just by saying "I feel marvellous" I feel I feel I feel, I feel myself, I'm feeling myself, and now I've hi-jacked the sentiment and twisted the whole meaning of the database, I feel like throwing this immense sentence of inconsequentiality out there and if they feel me then they'll follow: LOOK AT THE LENGTH OF THIS SENTENCE, it's like a book in a sentence, a world write here, go ahead and java extract me I'll tell you everything you need to know, Ms Curious.

And with that, the final stab in the darkness of insanity, it's time for an acceptance test of the most regular order, the master of one style is the amateur of another, history has been made, but there are so many histories now that making a new one is a trifling experience.