Afflatus on a red red minibus full of mindplay:: 3:12am 30.11.05

Cellophane. After three cigarettes and one cup of white coco, I am thinking about cellophane. Who knew nicotine could be so trippy. There are countless hours of studying ahead of me and I still don’t know where to start. I have substituted food for the silent afterhours of useless staring into knots of scribbled black ink on Hilroy lined paper. I would like this mould of cellophane to understand, to resonate at the same level but it’s useless, it’s too much to ask, it’s senseless. I just want to feel your blinking neurons. Clear out the machine. There are dripping digits, wisping willows, slippery sunshine and your are there to catch me. I just want to feel blood rushing to the fingertips. Farting bells blinking from your bloody lips.

Silence. Giggles against the opposite wall. And the chaotic light shining from the desklamp makes me seek the stares of faceless strangers. You are there and I am here. And there is nothing like the vibrating pieces of mirror dancing between us. Silent retreat. You hear me. And I am stuck in a hole as the hole sucks the whole universe into pores that ooze hours-of-fucking sweat. At this moment, I hear nothing but the crackling noises of ingested calories morphing into fatty streaks, soon lining some inner walls, then smearing onto jiggly yellow rolls. Roll roll roll rotund rolling tonne. The masses dislike you. "We are getting impatient" armed with forks and knives,the masses want their medium.You say, "the medium is not the massage, let them eat cake". I ask now: what is the medium of the masses?

The breath of the morning, I keep forgetting.The smell of the warm summer air.


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