f'n' phine/ sippin' gin and juice and listening, appropriately, to snoop dogg, doggystyle/ hi-fi sounding phenomenal/ got some madd shit cummin thru e-bay/ realised most of my collection is jazz and classical (jazz because when i moved to camden jazz fm were selling off their entire vinyl collection and classical because i teephed many records off my dad and bought the rest from charity shops/ i love both genres and became something of an aficionado but a deficit of hip-hop and reggae seriously grates upon uno/ thus these new additions are extremely welcome)/ ma soeur over for luncheon today/ run out of 'blues' and no money to purr-chase more till monday when 30 shall be mine/ i do rather like them / i also have a mini cohiba box in which i keep them/ cool, eh?/ anyway...

i recall very little of the last phew days/ the 'blues' (diazepam) combined with numerous other pills and potions sent me on a merry-go-round of powerful dream states/ they would occur even when, e.g., i would close my eyes briefly while riding the train/ i also have a habit of loosing entire days, unable to remember actual events as they are overwhelmed by powerful opiate hallucinations/ a good example would be the scene in requiem for a dream where the guy fantasies about taking the cops gun at the ice cream kiosk/ the veracity of such hallucinations can be truly remarkable and eclipse prosaic 'real' events/ today've picked up my rx, 'd a few cans of k, bought a bottle of good gin from a brick-a-brack shop for a quid (thats one pound), listened to my latest vinyl purchases, marveling at the sound quality of my system the while/ whilst some find my passion for scary somewhat heroin my lust for music is almost comparable/ will write again this eve. - must check e-bay for interconnects...

i recall buk saying without the booze he'd've suicided or gone to the nut house/ drug use in the lower echelons of society is seen as vile and depressing in the extreme but consider the situation of a guy working a lift, trapped in a box lit by strip lights, being told which button to press, having to be polite and set er ah and set er ah/ logically he's making the best of an intolerable situation and was it not oscar twat-cunt wilde who said it is the mark of genius to make opportunities where none are apparent/ the rich expect the poor to show, dignity, reserve, hard-work, all that shit/ and what rewards do these bring?/ fuck all, except p'haps they are slightly less looked down upon by those above them and so can feel some sense of pride/ a house nigger/ yessuh!/ a heroin addict who lives in a skip will experience moments of bliss but at a high price/ when sick his situation is unbearable/ the conclusion?/ there is nothing absolutely better/ every thing has its perks and downsides/ the life of a poor junky has flashes of heaven/ the life of the poor staid worker has no flashes of beyond but then he doesn't experience the intolerable hell of being sick on street in the biting cold/ but his frustration translates into other areas of his life/ the conclusion?/ there is no conclusion/ we all are bound to the spokes of the wheel and are gifted and fucked by turns/ but surely josephine bloggs with cash has a better life that joney bliggs without/ no/ hell is relative/ a guy with cash's hell is them same as the hell of a man without cash/ i've known guys on the streets with one leg who impart such significance to acquiring one of each to enjoy after a hard days graft/ i've know rich guys who have it all and bore of it because it's all too easy/ everyones different/ you can't group people into neat binary opposites/ and this is why psychology, drug treatment, psychiatry fails/ over simplification/one guy with red hair and a diazepam habit's treatment may work and another guy with red hair and a diazepam habits treatment won't work/ desperate for salvation people grasp onto the most tenuous similarities to give them hope / take language: philosophy of language is notoriously difficult because when one starts to analyse any simple statement it is found to contain many inconsistencies/ the idea of language is to give people some common ground by which to communicate their feelings/ it is simply an agreement driven by common sense (i.e. an understanding of the flawed nature of human understanding because we are all disparate entities floating in a void)/ because every individuals feelings are so different, because of backgrounds, spacial locations, physical and psychological make ups, a lot has to be over looked to reach any form of 'understanding', which is why language breaks down entirely under scrupulous analysis/ it is human insecurity, a desperate need to feel secure, to feel grounded that a) drives this common sense approach and b) makes people so desperate to disprove this theory/

all is well/ glass of shiraz to my left, 2 dfs within, happy mondays, tart tart on the sound box/ my budget hi-fi is wicked/ never again shall i be seduced by hi-end shit/ although my previous set-up sounded phenomenal there just isn't fucking 8 grands difference between the set-up i'm running now and the one i'd then/ moreover i enjoy my current hi-fi more because i've got fuck all expectations (or very few)/ psychology is the fundamental factor in enjoyment or appreciation of anything/ even the finest works of art can seem shit when one is in a particular frame of mind/ when you've shot your bolt, a pussy can look absurd/ the most trite sentimentality can seem deeply moving when one is in an emotionally fragile state/ nothing is absolutely in itself/ every thing is a subtle interplay of internal and external factors and one must be mindful of this/ anyway...the dfs are kicking in nicely/ must to the local booze outlet for more/ i need to do some fucking work but who am i kidding?/ i never fucking work/ i'd love to be a workaholic because i'd achieve so much/ as it is what ever talent i may have flounders, flaps and spasms, a fish out of water on a baking deck 'neath an imperious sun/ a charming thought but that's just how my 'talent' feels/

all well/ intake: 1 can special brew, 500mls, 9.0%; 2 cans k cider, 500mls/can , 8.4%; 3 rox; 4 dfs, 10 mg/pill; 1 can stella; 200mls methadone/ feeling deliciously smoooooog-uh/ yes/ all is delicate rubber and space between objects of sound/ i like...will scribe l8r once my gouch's been enjoyed/ can't beat pharm.s/

so, you reap just what you, eh?/ well considering i'm on the back end of an all day-night-dayer and feeling pretty good puts paid to that pessimistic view/ h'ever must type later as focusing's a bit of an effort...

a damned fine eve./ backed by day wine (also imbibed by the alba) we ate a phenomenal willy and wine (cock-oh?-van) accompanied by good chardonnay, merlot and shiraz/ then i on automatic to b- for dubz twain which, for fucking once, was almost near exquisite/ then unable to sleep tidied and cleansed my 'study', drinking k cider and ekoohting thoo-bag (tupac?) and others the while/'m also glad i've rediscovered the aural successful-ending-of-e.g.-cock-greeting-fanny-s (organization-asams) which explode throughout one's brain matter as one listens to that sweet shit the ubiquitous 'they' call 'vinyl'/ muking finted, reader, mucking futher mucking finted...bizat/