I'm I'm not sure what to write, except I have a need to put it into words document and sure its exacted. I'm not sure i've anything to write that hasn't already been written before. Though comforting to think that i'm repeating the same words of some great philosopher or some deluded Psychopath. I then feel disgraced. I want to rub faeces around the transcript and fuck it to a pulp. It's wrong. I want Original. I don't want to paint by numbers. It's a falsity. Like a mind to paper, pen existence. It misses immediacy, orginality, the achievement of the masters.
I think, then think, then condense, then forget, then fuck around, eat, then write, blaspheme.
Think, then think, walking, pondering, writing, imprinted on a blood vessel hidden to be thought of later, forget, then thought of, and forgot again and until in surprise I find out my brain has come up with some miraculous theory. A way through to something more, better. Enlightenment reigns, if only temporarily.
The thing is i'm just complaining on a piece of tree with ink. What use is it? What is the point for such artifice of rebellion, when all is just in print, a static framework. Such a deluded voice, it seems to be radical but wheres the raw scrawls the picketlines, the Fucking.
And then I think about the drinking, the thought, the action that brought me here, an attempt to try to explain. The Want the Need to Fuck and be Fucked. The Art of Forgetting and Wondering into the imaginary landscape of dicks arseholes vaginas the excessive pleasure which is never enough and just a momentary blip into forgetting again and partly remembering what's next...
p.s. 05/12/10 I retain no explanation of this ranting. The thought i'd like to leave you with is an apology to a past of stupidity, a pathetic-ness; a self which is slowly fading.
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