A chips & dips subsistence.

I'm chemical-drenched and anxious. Sense and reference (GODdamn it) will wait, I'm sure, until some tension - smooth as fingernail clippings through a narrow-as-it-is urethra- gets cyber-spaffed. Increasingly I understand that the pleasant morning-warmth of exclusivity is incompatible with anarchic, devil-may-care roguery. You simply can't hold hands and tell her she's a boring little dumpling at the same time without it being a mild sort of rape. Burns night - impossible to judge success when your room is as thick as that, but it seemed like we all stretched beyond our adolescence a little. From where I was splayed, anyway. Wool on pelt is a very good look for me. Nothing daring is possible without a little Joekaying. Steve Aylett happened, Ezra Pound happened, Larkin, Thomas, Deery, BURNS!, and an address that went unanswered. Making people laugh stimulates the very worst glands, shooting out pathetic youngest child brain juices, attention-flavoured and unnourishing.