4:33 p.m. - 2007-05-11
diSEASE
�The terminal disease of life-thoughts, things and events, is grinding me into dust. It�s like a tidal wave of misery that comes from nowhere, drowns me and then surges on to the next poor fucker. When I�m occasionally sitting in high branches, I�m eternally waiting to be banished to the dirty pool of muck that collects at the bottom of the old stone well. Probably the same well where Jezebel played drums and a Japanese woman crawled on her hands and knees�
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