Oooh you're a naughty mess

ripped on caffe/ just returned from nero where i imbibed two treble shot lattes and am feeling the burn/ intake of yesterday: 1 btl table wine and the usual anti and hedralz/ slept ok/ as usual vivid dreams/ so, on waking read some of my 'work' and was very impressed/ amusing how my opinion of my writing oscillates from wonder to deepest despair, and no where does it light betwixt/ getting gym pass today/ must work off some of this mammoth weight/ have conceived a fantastic notion/ when working out i'll listen to classical, as i used to, though a different opera, symphony, concerto, whatever each time/ my workout shall last the length of the piece/ this is both constructive and enriching/ reading improves my writing massively but classical music, i found, tightens the rhythm and meter of my prose/ it becomes bare and elegant/ and i do not consciously try to make my writing more taut and skeletal: it just happens as a result of this practice/ i used to call it subliminal learning/ i would play classical or recordings of me reading philosophical texts whilst engaging in something else/ and the evidence (e.g. better writing) i think proves it works/ so...permit permit permit/ are you permitted?/ self-control/ are you permitted to actualise yourself?/ or are you imprisoned, a victim of your fears and desires?/ i'm the latter/ however i feel when my inevitable release is secured i'll embrace life all the more voraciously/ not in a mid-life-crisis sense, which smacks of desperation/ no, in an irresistible hyde-ian sense/ it happened to me once before, when my antis started to climax/ and it'll happen again/ i cannot wait/ my enjoyment of life became voracious when the antis started to really kick in/ i became what i am anyway but un-immured/ and i flew/ what has been most agonising about my situation is acute awareness of my troubles and their causes and complete impotence to improve/ well, not quite complete/ i am on my way and out of choice/