have a whole other world. History stories make believe that its the same one we live in, and the way they do that is by trying to be as close as possible to what actually happened.

Sometimes stories have writers, and they too must have stories, and those stories too will have worlds. And some of those worlds will have writers. And writers in worlds we can barely conceive can conceive worlds we can't. I imagine that, though this continuum might stretch beyond what we're capable of writing, they can't stretch to everything. There must be stories and worlds to…

Back from the hospital. Seems that some special edition lego I'd swallowed as a child hadn't made its way past my stomach or fully dissolved. Got weird heart palpitations and felt sick - it transpired that, after all these years, the pieces had finally clicked together to create a larger object.

Yes. There was a melty helicopter inside me.

Janitors' Syndicate. Not sure what to make of this. Like a bizarre combo of nurse with wound and belle and sebastian? I dunno. It's kinda scary and ugly and cute and fun all at the same time.

Introduced John to some other friends today. It went exceptionally badly, culminating in him - God knows how nervous me must've been then, at the time - decanting some instant coffee into some mugs for people as a gesture of goodwill . Anyway, he went and poured the kettle straight into the almost full, massive jar of instant coffee. I'm hoping it'll just…

is less efficient than we'd envisaged.

You sacrifice a lot for magic. We all know that. It's a truism. The power is proportionate to the sacrifice - it's to compensate for a lack of input power; you need to make up for it somehow. JK Rowling never understood this. She confused magic with academic study. Mary Stewart and Ursula Le Guin did. They knew what they were dealing with.

The idea is so simple. Take your toxic by-products. Your depleted uranium and plutonium; your raw sewage; your plastics and glass and metals and human waste and engineered disposable luxury. You…

The end is always slow with regards the final movement of the gestalt. Sudden, with regards the proprioception of one within the movement itself. After all - the end is the exact moment it has nothing more to say; and most things and people and places and ideas have the most of all to say about their own end. And some people talk for longer.

Some ends are dark. Some ends are light. Some ends are the end of the stultifying dullness that killed the next thing. Some ends are the end of the brief moment of light that held…

would not exist in Freud's mind if he'd ever had dried skin stretched tight and itchily over the spot normally occupied by his index finger's first knuckle (counting inwards from the tips).

We passed the rehabilitation houses slowly. Their glazed eyes staring distantly, misguidedly, past us into something more permanent.

<truism>The only thing permanent is change</truism>

That's what scares me the most. All these rituals. Sacrifices. And they mean nothing to them. Blood. It's us its for. To feel like we'll be safe come the turn of the tide.

The Self Sufficient Sexual Shoe

Alliteration makes it memorable to us. Every person who remembers it, every person whose heard it. Their Entire Union - nothing, all together, to the beasts that come.

Blood sacrifice and obsequiance. They're the aegis we have to give ourselves when we know what's coming. The ritualists are not enablers. They're just broken.

Wow.

That piece really makes me think, y'know? It's like, the fractured unconsciousness of a dream - the crudity and uglyness of both the mental and the physical when they're viewed apart. There is something missing, but I don't know whether it's unity itself, or if there is a third aspect. A Holy Ghost. A Spirit. Of course, an unknown absence is a part of what it shows us without of course being able to show us.

We see in it the lie of Mizaru, Kikazaru and Iwazaru (and Shazaru, if you seek him here, too); the seperation is a…

used to have private ballet lessons with a 60-something man in a small private room in his house.
At the end of every lesson - and sometimes, towards the end, well before the end - he would let her practise her golf swing with one of his many clubs. As she made the back-swing with a five iron (let us pretend it was a five iron and that I know something about golf) the door to this room was surprisingly opened, and a fast-moving lump of metal in a much-improved arc came into contact with the jowly underside of one…

a friend of mine keeps taking pictures of their balls and posting them online. Sick, blood.
http://www.foldingshitcraftyshit.blogspot.co.uk/