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Upwards of a thousand things with staring eyes hiding in every corner in here. Quick moving. Just outta sight. Some with legs. Others with wings, skin, feathers, slug-like oozing behind where they hide. Some mornings are like this. One minute you’re watching a programme about Preppers, the next you’re under attack. It’s the familiar tale of fragile psyche versus the shit truth of human existence. And the knowledge that all the problems of the World cannot be solved by lighting an incense stick and gibbering some words about poverty, war, protection, love. No, No. I lit one anyway. A hopeless romantic.

I’m too fragile at the moment. Skin too thin. Watery blood, unable to function without prescribed meds. I’m clogging up my arteries with shitty food and sedentary living.

‘There’s only one way of life, and that’s your own.’ Music good and loud.

I’m ravaged by years of booze and medication. Is that the Way of Life they were referring to? I fucking doubt it. Those poor deluded freaks. Sure, living outside next to a river, smelling woodsmoke and playing guitar seems, on the face of it, appealing, but it’s a pipe dream. Want to taste freedom? Want to know if you’re really free? Trying doing something for any length of time without money. Think as hard as you can. I do. It’s impossible. Sure, you can sit still, but that land you’re sitting on better be owned by you. It’s all about ownership. Paying in to the system. Paying in is vital to maintain the status quo. As soon as you stop paying taxes the Government want to know why. Fuck, I even got threatened with court action for refusing to put my name on the electoral register. And no matter what bolts are on my doors, the Government have the means to smash them down if they are in the mood. They represent the money every one of us has in our pockets – and is duty bound to hand to some utility corp, or taxman. Every inch of the UK is owned by somebody paying in. They don’t like people who don’t agree with the same way of doing things. They used to hang Witches around here.

As you can see, today I am a paranoid mess. I don’t want an Apple IWatch, or a Nissan Car, or to eat something called Pappa Johns. I’m not even sure what type of food Pappa Johns is but the guy in the tiny bit of advert I’ve just seen is enough to put me off. He is freakishly dark-haired – greasy hair, tight skin, weird grimace smile – and untrustworthy looking. Is he selling cheese? Burgers? I don’t want to look him up on the internet. One glimpse of that hideous reptile face is enough for me today. He looks like he’d suck the last pint of blood from a road crash victim before the Emergency Team turn up and have to keep him at bay with high voltage defibrillator pads. What is going on?!

Yes. Today is hopeless already. [9.26am BST] See you when one of us blinks first.






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