I should be there but i'm here. Uh oh.

Sell me your fearlessness

I'll pay you a handsome price.  

 

We rest.

Take my hand, save what you're doing for tomorrow.

You won't take any more information in tonight.
Your eyes are glazing.

Kill all the electrical things.

Take your clothes off.

Grip the sink.
Brush.
Spit.
Rinse.
Wipe the grime from your face.
Grimace back at the mirror. 

Set your alarm clock
Beyond looming dates,
Beyond a heart that lurches
Like a snapping dog.

Sleep for a week. 

 Click off the light, drop
Your head onto the pillow.

It'll take the weight. 

 

Make me less grey

Tonight I get dressed up. 

But not as spectacularly as Bjork. 

I'd forgotten to listen to her songs for a few years. They remind me of places and people I haven't seen for so long.

We squint

Hello sun, hello cider.

Apocalyptic morning

Today I look at photographs by Simon Roberts, taken as he travelled through Russia. They are exquisitely bleak. These places look very quiet and very still. Half-forgotten, becalmed. I want to step into them.

 

The images of housing blocks remind me of Pruitt-Igoe, which you can see getting partly demolished in this sequence from Koyaanisqatsi

 

We bombed it down the hills

Here are some misty views from my bike last week

Today sitting in the sun, I entered the world of Gormenghast. "This tower.. arose like a mutilated finger".  His sentences taste delicious so far.  I want to tear off the pages and pin them in my hair.

I also ate a duck egg.  I was apprehensive.  It was big.  I had to slam it hard to crack it open.  If you hold it up to the sunlight it becomes semi-transparent and etheral, like an opal.  And inside the yolk is a deep, dirty orange like 1970s wallpaper and those seat covers you get on the Bakerloo line. 

I'm beginning to like hills. Pedal pedal wheeze creak wheeze.

Then freewheeeeeeelin