There is a terrible feeling under my breast, like poison or mourning, can't tell which. It's making me feel sick, there's a queasiness in my heart, a rat in my veins.
They call this 'existential angst' i think. That feeling that there is nothing between you and the great black void. So i'm supposed to go up to it and stare it out, shoulder to shoulder, eyeball to eyeball. Take it's great black soul into my own and laugh about it. Well it's alright for those dead philosophers to talk like that, maybe the sadder truth is all you get for such courage is syphilitic genitalia and a bad case of the heebeegeebees.
I am realising that time is a life threatening disease.
And junkies filled with light may bring the souls of the dead back to life, but they are still junkies.
These are my two thoughts for the day.
Life is monumental and feeble at best, but always self-referential.
So I would now stuff down something wickedly creamy made with chocolate, if i had anything in my kitchen that was wicked and creamy and made with chocolate, and if I didn't feel so sick. An enormous chocolate eclair, oozing with comfort and badness.
Instead, I think I'll sit at this seat of purgatory I call a desk, and write out into public my microcosm of deep and not so profound suffering, in true ARTISTIC style, that is, the stuff of every day fucking life. What's the Sylvia Plath line.. " dying is an art, like everything else,I do it exceptionally well.."?
tally ho, one day i may well see the lights of home without always looking for a body in the basement,
and Pete Doherty may not be pushing up floorboards as quickly as he is laying them.
ps. this picture should be banned under the obscenity law
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