i should be in bed dreaming of wet tee shirt competitions and jelly wrestling nymphomaniacs, i should be at the art house bar in the city wooing my brothers secretary, i should be having wild sex with a blond and a red head, i should be meeting a friend for a drink in the city, i should be watching 'true grit' i should really be in the bath relaxing but instead here i am, home alone, writing up my stream of consciousness.
it's been a huge day, cram it all in, i did, and everyone is satisfied except those that i stood up and let down, they must feel slightly disappointed. but i am sorry, this is my way, it don't mean i don't want to be with you, it just means i need to write, i need to be home at mission control. so i am.
i slip into my default mode, a mode so faulty it's actually alien to most of you, but that's okay, i chose experience and kept some innocence, i still believe in love. what does that make me, a fool, a high priest, a hanged man, the lovers, or the magickian?
ha well i guess that depends upon you.