This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

El Topo.

Start chipping away at things and you’ll find nothing but that grey fuzz that inhabits the font of your head aching on a rainy day. Dragging the colour out of the sad pupils who alot themselves but ten minutes an hour to let the light in. In this basement the details have become compacted in the shadows intricate details play about with logic and patterns. Some say a man formed sounds at will with the battering of raw flesh in his mouth. Another claimed he fucked a girl and some time later she burst with blood and out slicked a son. I didn’t believe him, told him it was the milkmans look at the sad look in his eyes that son’s too clever to be one of yours and he hit me around the face buzzed my nose set my mind back a second so I staggered out the bar spitting teeth indignantly at all those fools without the eyes to see my elegance. Drunk again friends? And knee deep in time so thick as sludge or treacle tied about my throat like a heavy tie I’m yet to own. It’s so pathetic to say I don’t want a job, but I like my leisure and words. Can’t I power something by talking? Fuck. People like that word. People like to say it like they smoke a cigarette, with no attention at all.

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