Rules and writing

The rules govern what I write. I may have a collection of impulses in my head, but these must be ordered by rules before they can find their way out of my head. And how much leeway the rules give these impulses is anyone's guess. With enough rules, the text should be able to generate itself.

None of this is news, but some of this needed to be written as a prelude.

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.