one mans woman is another mans
well i am travelling through my life on minus hours sleep, through the rain, the lightning and the thunder, i am in the floating world, numb like i'm on some weird illegal anaesthetic. come on sister take a ride in my bubble, we can cruise past the supermarkets of your desires, picking up some soft porn breakfast cereal and jack up on seventeen varieties of milk, me i like my rice milk. the bubble wants to go left but it's having navigation issues, sabotaged by weird energy beams from the solar flares that penetrate the morning we take a sharp right. i meet up with a friend who has returned from the ukraine, he has been internet dating, spending about one year trawling through the profiles and building up cybernetic friendships with hundreds of girls desperate for escape, and by the law of numbers he found one, now he has returned with a sparkle in his eyes and the hope of return. he shows me photographs on his lap top, looks pretty cold, the girls all look unreal, the photos are glamourous and i see the glamour. i have to escape in my pod as a wave of nausea hits me between the eyes, the desperation bleeds onto the streets and i find some moments sanctuary with another friend tim who has recovered from a dose of gout, but he still laughs about death, crop circles and energetic vibrations and frequencies and general perfection. i like this conversation, i enter into it and we agree an all points metaphysical. the bubble takes me home, i shower, clean my teeth several times, and fall onto the bed, no sleep just a kind of stillness. i have not slept in 48 hours.