dornce wit mi, com on com on dornce wit me/ fiel passable/ starting in on espresso numero marcus and ekooting cherubini, medea/ failed to go out last night and instead kicked it with the gods, body prostrate floor bound (earth bound ghost nonsense), silken notes rolling around my vein-network and exploding like stars across my cerebellum/ most nice/ to wit, the music drew iron tears down mien cheek/ rounded off the eve-cum-nascent-dawn annoying the FOK un-in de selph viewing buk vidz/ if u thort the guy was death dull in print, witness him in interviews for a full and dazzling display of his talents/ he had an unparalleled ability to unflinchingly pronounce trite observations and teenage angst style views on politics, religion, metapharstikz andsetera/ he did show talent at times/ however he would boost his self-esteem by believing his own shit, thus stagnating and becoming a cringe-worthy caricature of himself/ traditionally great artists were forgiven their idiosyncrasies because of their talent, but since the emergence of the Writer, idiosyncrasies and a ceaseless need to carp on about them seem to be what da publik mistake for or, defeated by the status quo, accept as talent/ well at least he was far gone enough to not have to deal with the agony of self-realisation/ rest in peace, chinaski

so, a good day/ time spent a la psot aws tray plissful/ deMAr/ listening: rossini, il hair-stylist of seville/ soft evening incumbent, pastel hues abounding/ albrect mark store for vino boo-tailz mark (american satirist, y' ken lad?)/ attempting to affect good posture, which can only be beneficial/ fine smells sweet the air as supper marches toward completion/ reading montaigne, essaies at current and very much enjoying/ were one inclined to categorise i suppose light weight philosophy would cover it/ the mist lay in diaphanous pholdz, oh yes it did/ anyway, filled with optimism this eve and reveling therein/ moreover divine mezzo soprano electricity is crackling up and down my spine and flooding my brain with a rich syrup of endorphins/

f''''n' g''d/ just started my first can, bukka white, parchman farm blues easing through the media player &c and a beautiful day without/ i read some of my old journal entries la nuit d and was put in some discomfort/ i cannot understand how i endured in such a state for so long/ 'twas truly awful reading all my fears and concerns and writings are but a snapshot/ i must have more fortitude than i assume/ now good old janice, bye bye baby is sneaking thru the speakers/ intend to make a concerted effort to get back to reading today/ as i mentioned afore i go thru phazes when i'll D-vow-uh myriad books and then nothing, i cannot concentrate for more than a couple of lines/ i 9-t'-lack read each joor but i find novels hone my talents more/ anyway cher reader, i'll write more l8r...

domphlyktid/ just started in on my second k having managed to abstain 'til 1530 twain-joo-ur/ had a pleasant midday repast and an uneventful journey to the pharmacy/ as i boarded the train home i was struck by such a sense of futility, so something i've not felt in a while/ some days h'ev'r the w'ld s'mz phlat and grey, peoples actions pointless and all seems motions and thus lacking in meaning or purpose/ i'm sure there's some simple chemical explanation for my viewing things thus and p'haps the tendency to think of the world as purely chemical seems soulless/ i'm of the opine that soul doesn't mean shit and having one or imagining one does not entail happiness/ but happiness is possible, we've all experienced it, so why not just live happily without meaning?/ there's no way of knowing what is right, thus all is opinion and pointless/ having a conception of heaven, e.g., is even worse than some guy working all his life for a dream whatever and then being too tired to enjoy it before dying/ he's missed out on his entire life and been kept going by pure fallacy/ now that's horrific/ there is so much pleasure to be had now and belief &c is a hindrance/ there's no fear in a bang only in the anticipation of it/ thus fear is false, hope is false, faith is false, putting things off is bullshit/ 'people' get it so fucking wrong/ not 'believing' is not nihilism/ its just unwillingness to accept false beliefs as one's purpose in life/anyway this is no sermon/ rot if you want, i'm just writing this to clarify my own thoughts/ so there...

The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health.

Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho, 1764

drinking phenomenal espresso and listening everyday people, sly and the family/ all good/ weather beautiful/ soon to set aboard afore lunch with parental systems and alba-reicht/ reading very little at the mo'/ i go through spells with music and lit./ my last reading spell i read 20 books in 3 weeks and bar two novels 've read nothing of so-called substance since/ i have though been involved in a rather fanatical extension of my music collection/ lester bangs i have been reading and i love him for his sheer lack of pretension and oft remarkable insights/ whilst his style was somewhat rambling he was possessed of a relentlessly searching, penetrating intellect and gut-tearing wit/ god i'm starting to sound like those i despise/ read a lot of 'rock' reviews and most string together the same stock of vapid statements which, when you hear the music, apply not at/ sheeut, i carnt be arsed to h-rrrrant/ piece...

geifeln dogo/ minraud psinz/ psignip espresso 'n' goncim twain/ wurd pley/ not much to express/ yester was a day drenched in opera and whiskey/ glinka, verdi, lortzing, donizetti, vargnur were present/ 'twas an aural safet/ don pasquale, rienzi, ruslan and ludmila, All divine/ diniev, not plurski, nicht?/ oh arse, to be fair one must provide rules for each contorted word or metaphor ar similie but that would take forever/ it's just how i think/ please understand me harhar...

have just acquire a five cassette pack entitled masters of the opera, 1642 - 1843, and 'tis diVIne...ov'd a productive jour/ acquired some good scotch, a slim volume of recent lithuanian poetry (some of it excellent) and now sit typing (d'course) and sipping scotch and milk, fideleo flooding my back brain, via my ears/ hm, so, what?/ renumerative graft keeps orn kummin, which is passable/ i'm fed with the old ways of driving the wolff from/ enough excitement say i/ thus i shall continue to live a quiet, solitary existence, intent upon attaining some degree of perfection in my kraft and c'est ca/ i espie some of my previous acquaintances who've nothing to divert them and tragedy 'tis/ fun must come to an end or it will end one/ i'm not saying i'm entirely regarding-formed, 9, jus' i've adjusted certain aspects to allow for a more pleasant passage/ oond seh sah...

well morning, what a, late post today/ wk late as consequence of opiate surplus the day de yester thence to procters for xr of tical/ sans of kidyr train en root (not just too but beck also) and now feeling are excelent/ ekooting mozza, rekkers on radoin thrice/ go to far and you mayn't git back, mar surn...

How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook. Milton

up ur-lee two-jou-er/ stomach erring toward the acidic/ yester had lunch out with alba et-cet and drank house red for a good few/ then moved to beer, then good wine but, having discovered stepvhie tolberc invested in a cpl btls cheap rouge/ i have developed what might seem an inexplicable fetish for cheap booze but i drink it barze gu it possesses the job dunn/ it may upset the natural balance of my stomach, distort my self-perception and inflame my emotions but it is cheap and gets me drunk/ moreover an addiction to expensive whiskey whilst at university has made me mistrustful of high price drinks/ they are much nicer but i don't think the price reflects the quality/ same with hi-fi/ moreover obsessing over such things detracts from ones enjoyment of them/ i have more fun listening to the smiths on a shite system drinking white star than i ever did smoking a cohiba, drinking springbank 21 (1st distilling) and listening to an expensively modified michell gyro deck through 10s of thowzsands of £z of amps cables and speakers/ i also enjoyed what i did with the money i raised selling all that shit/

music may with sweetness, through mine ear, dissolve me into ecstasies. milton

f'n' ok/ drinking black coffee/ listening: nervous breakdown, black flag/ yester made the fatal of beginning trop jeune/ as i 'worked' whiskey from the night appeared at my elbow and with what little will power i have i gave in and drank/ 25cls disappeared swiftly, followed by a couple of 66cl stellas then an escape to the tops/ thereat was rewarded for continued custom mit fier fur one score and five and a shake atop/ most nice/ adazzle i flew home and spent the rest of the after in jeweled contentment, listening to much chopin and drifting hither and thither/ a phenomenal song has just cum on my stezza: i can't quit you, otis rush/ hand-signed-form-of-payment-which-can-take-3-5-working-days-to-
clear it out, i implore/ minraud (one (of few) from wsb)/ thanks gramps...finally, i stumbled across a work which chimes with my theory of arrested development in the Artist and addiction to reminiscing/ read on...
...Bohemia is less a region of definite situation and boundaries than a state of mind, a memory of youth and of the glamour of youth... -Arthur Barlett Maurice