and dogfish puff bubbles in the deep

its been a long day. i've been working at a pc for the last month almost 24 hours, little food, hardly any sleep, images bombard their way into my head and inside me the voice that would scream LET ME OUT is quiet, tired, my throat fucked from smoke and drink and manic speech, the world has lost its fullstops.

meherjui daryush and kiarostami abbas and yes even makhmalbalf mohsin are great burning lamps in the halogen starred sky of cinematic tears but there is one silenter and more unknown, one who would not reveal the face with many mirrors for the mirrors all lie and this i know and this was told to the ancients for which no self-respecting greek came to the defence of a 72 year old wise man perhaps the only the world has known - when he was executed and slowly the veil of death crept in silence over his prone body, wrinkled wisdom snuffed out with a sip and centuries years of eyes that follow his life and breathe his soul out over beer mugs like opium smoke and the mists of a himalayan mountain peak so cold and did you think numbness could be this invigorating?

i - i wish i were laying me down to sleep for the dawn sits far on the horizon, all is dark and all is silent, a faint memory of music swirls across my lap and slips noiselessly to the floor and i want more you know, i always wanted more, when they came to tell me this was it, this was all there was really, i couldn't scream, i lay there and watched the gulls circling over the sea and through the sun streaming in and onto me, my hair, the bed, i saw it all as i knew it should have been, soaring.

my ceiling is extraordinary for the years i have lived it has lived and absorbed my thoughts it has like waterpaper soaking up the rain and streaked now with wisdom now with memory many many nights do i find my peace just staring, dry eyed in the dark, it is not wise to think i say and retire to my soul's thought chamber alone and chanting obscure quotes whose authors long dead have been buried now under the weight of critical thought but have you ever heard music, music that could make you rise up with no reason for rising straight up from your chair right in the middle of a meeting with twenty faces puzzled looking at you and waiting for a comment you aren't going to make because it was a reflex like the way you react when dirt gets in your eye, blink, sudden and strong, just with the memory of a movement in an orchestral manoeuvring that earned some band lots of money and kept the publicity machine churning and that is the dirty truth and it is the hardest to accept because it is dirty, it is impure but here it is, here it comes, we all make money in the end...

maybe if i knew the secret and i had the answers and i could speak the truth about the universe once and for all, they wouldn't believe me anyway or if they did i would have fan clubs and loyal supporters rallying at my speeches with little flags and placards and maybe someone would hate my guts and form anti-me groups and maybe i would be murdered by a violently unamused person one day and i would have made a lot of money by then and lived all over the world, for richer or poorer conditions, all depending on the convictional pretensions i hold for the time.

maybe i should stop now.