26 July 2014



It no longer hurts. I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and drew me a new one of purple with eight crimson limbs – each possessing a caring hand for a fevered brow – each tentacle a golden pathway to enlightenment – according to my sponsors who have been mysteriously absent of late.

I believe there is no saving anyone, even ourselves – especially ourselves. We are each bound to a fatal trajectory; we all reach the same destination over time. We come from nothing and it’s to nothing we return. We spend our days with the masses chewing the cud and shitting it out; we are all members of the one great herd - all bound for the abattoir.

But enough of this bovine philosophy – I have a boat to catch and my memoirs to forge. This shit does not cook itself. It takes days of careful preparation and intense deliberation to float these little dinghies. There’s a cheap and cheerful cliché – a clumsy metaphor requiring little imagination; little boats adrift on the glittering ocean; the flotsam and jetsam of tiny shipwrecks; no survivors to tell the tale.

I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and set sail for new lands where they’d never heard of me – or my sorry tale. I ate my ragged sails and burned my little boat on the volcanic shores of some forgotten land where they remembered nothing, but they remembered me. It was raining, I recall, they laid on a hero’s welcome – complete with friendly lynch mob and an accommodating tree...


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