Soliloquy.
My ex-gf Kirsty. SImple pose but I think I got her... took a tiny piece of her soul and wrapped it in charcoal. She was going through a lot of surgery for cervical cancer at the time. She has been in remission for a long time now.
She is a sweet, pure soul.

NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!

BLOW MY NOSE ON A PRAIRIE DOG AND THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW OF A MOVING CAR.

Here.

Read this.
I dare you.

BLOW MY NOSE ON A PRAIRIE DOG

Gah, HELP!@
Gah!
Man.
Well I have sunk back into conscious control. Yup. Straight as a Euclidean line. Got my cigarettes. Got my coffee. I have my seething, fluted mind.
This is not an answer.
NO.

nonononononononononono
and
nah nope no way.

I remain unmoved, I remain uninvolved, I am NOT absorbed I am NOT distracted.
Well happy times people, give me a fist full of blood and a mirror to paint it on, Christ I have nothing better to do.
Staring equanimity bullshit, sweating faded and stuck in the corner holding a wilted plastic flower.
I’d be bored to within millimetres of my life if I could just stop thrashing against mortality.
Never knew a kindred fugue an awkward soul a trance of reciprocal piteous recognition, not then not now you can’t fold someone else into your own cramp.
Hope drags around my ankles and makes me walk funny and I suspect, smell bad.
Watch while I age and fade and

BLOW MY NOSE ON A PRAIRIE DOG AND THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW OF A MOVING CAR

Gotta be something else –escape is worse because it ends it ends it must has to implicit in the fine print written on the side of the bottle next to the syringe with the oh yeh gambling chips and LET’S NOT ever ever
FORGET

the self-delusion

that latter the latter which was later I have never gulped with both hands I have not supped nor slipped myself a sip in the sucking slide toward the damned dawn.
It is always THE HAPPIEST LIFE IS TO BE WITHOUT THOUGHT –
Sophocles
And HE had fleas.

Quid opus est [artes deflere? Tota flebilis vita est.
“what need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”

Seneca.
And he was actually really cool despite the toga when it wasn’t keg night.

Any awkward souls kin if not in fugue in the extremity itself.., emotion?
extrmes…. lovers that hurt like blood is the least like pain is breath like sex is as close as we come to being life and not living life
to
fanatical fantastical farcical farfetched fanatical feeling(i said fanaticalthat twice because i care)

when i meet others of my race, they tell me their secrets. they tell me their passions and the dark things that they have done. they tell me the wonders of kindness that they have graced the world with. i who so rarely if ever shuts the up – rumours abound of my sleep-talking but i don’t believe them, i wasn’t THERE!

i have so much hope. i am passionate in my conviction that the future is, for our race and planet, exquisitely positive. this is through careful reason. it is happy alamity that there is a unity betwixt my reason and the font/geyser of my hope. (convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies – voltaire)

i know terrible things, not only of so very, very many individuals, but because of the hundreds of confessions and cries that i have been somehow invited to bear witness to, terrible because of their commonality.

what i write of here is something else evinced clear as a carbon-grid-pure diamond, and that is that… though i share almost all nuance of almost all feeling (i am a man; nothing human is alien to me – michel demontaigne), i have never met a woman whose passion flares and hurts and hurts endless; extant… unbearable.
and i wold love such a woman were she to love me. And it would be the worst horror of each of our lives.