“Inside, we’re all seventeen, with red lips” – Laurence Olivier. (Quote taken from a wonderful New Yorker piece by Roger Angell.) My eyesight’s never been good, but it was never bad either. When I was a kid, I guessed it might be bad (my dad was four-eyed all through my childhood, until the 90s when he started
And a puff of cloud beneath, and the world is gone. London, rigid in its rows of suburban houses, grey and brown like a tired corpse, vanishes with a sigh. I look down at the passing clouds and I imagine them opening again, to reveal: flocks of dragons drifting beneath, mammalian muscles rippling beneath scaled
All dreams begin and end with an elipsis… …so I’m feeling a bit lonely right now. My friends have all bummed off and left me to entertain myself, except one who I’m just walking up to the top floor of the hotel to say goodbye to, before I go and find something to do. We…
So, after a week of Maria skipping out every night, we’ve split up. She loves me, I love her, but it’s not enough.
To the tune of: Kroke – Earth (Behusher Chosid) I dreamt of a musical instrument last night. I was on a train stuck between cities, heading for the engine and the drivers, and I passed a family of khazars, entertaining themselves by taking turns on it.I had to push past a shtarker in traditional dream
To the tune of: Mad World by Tears for Fears. First Dream (Nightmare): Mass Effect 2 interactable highlight encapsulating a plastic dinner tub, endlessly tesselating and overlapping. Second Dream (Nightmare): A hole through the tiled splash wall behind the cooker in our old house, a hole that’s like something has bored/burned through wood but it’s
At the start, chance happenings – two good brains happening on each other, meeting by renown and word of mouth. Nothing else, no writing. Then, with writing, papyrus passing from palaces of the kings as edicts, the only minds that were known. Then writing widens, concepts are allowed and others than the kings have raw
Somedays you wonder if there’s any point opening your eyes. Despite the miracles of daylight saving, when I get up to go to work it’s dark. In our cramped flat trapped between the motorway, tube lines, and ‘retail parks’ (such a horrible word, evoking branded daffodils and planting gold to harvest tat), it’s brown outside
I remember my dream, for the first time in months. Now little is extant, but I remember a great chamber, so dark you can hardly see the walls, the floor strewn with rubble, half an ancient theatre or a great school hall, half a war zone, kipple everywhere. We’re all children (I sense my mother