Just do it!

I’m just hitting these fucking keys and scrubbing those strings.  The strings.  What’s the point of any of this?

I’m buoyed by the words of HST, Kerouac and others that make me think, just for a while, that it might be worth it in some way – that there’s some point to this whole fucking exercise. 

Then I wonder.  Then the doubt creeps in again like the salt waters of the Severn that I used to watch from that fucking boat of mine, tied on to a rotting pontoon, waiting to be lifted off the mud.  Even that wasn’t worth it in the end.

What was I thinking of a minute ago?  It escapes me now.

The early warning of early onset dementia.  Keep drinking.  It’s a race for the liver and the brain.  May the best man win.

I see myself in all those situations that I have at some time inhabited.  Madness?  You tell me.  I would never presume to diagnose myself.

There are lots of air tickets that I want.  They gave me a 10 year visa to visit the US.  I am a VIP.  A trusted visitor.  And, do you know what?  I love the goddam place.  I believe in the land of the free as did everyone on the wrong side of the Berlin wall.  The grass is ALWAYS greener.

Madrid! Madrid! Madrid! Madrid! God! the very word arouses me.  Just get me the hell there.  Berlin.  What a city.  Venice! Over-priced pizzas and red wallets.  I love red leather – my own personal fetish-sh-sh-sh.  Aaaah!  Slurp!  Oh, the laundry-bill.

Listen.  What’s worse than death?  I’ll tell you.  Mundanity.  Word says this word doesn’t exist.  Now you know what to think.

Annoy your neighbours.  Drive them to counselling, then blow the fuckers up and leave the country.  But don’t let them die of mundanity.

There is no better feeling in the world than leaving, unless you are in love.

Leave, or fall in love.  The choice is yours.