Rebel Physics

I fell, in love, to a black hole.
A void with cradle voice.
I am anti-matter because nothing does in his presence.
Attention-starved, I starve the rest of me into negative mass.
His gaze is nebulous...

I was told today that the sun is mostly black.
It has every allure going, distant, hot, light-giving, capable of blackening tissue with even its mildest touch.

I, Icarus, caress A Heavenly Body...

Mmmm. Like he'd notice. Not content to orbit,
My atomised selves resume their solitary trajectory, brushing the debris from their blushing moons.

"Onwards and upwards."

Time is the greatest steal.

I soar over a morphic field of clones, each a distortion of the first,
I'm surfing echoes. Maybe soon my gravitational pull will summon another to orbit me, and I can be the first, the premiere.

Or in equilibrium we could orbit each other.

Actually I'll pass on equilibrium. My cat mangled a dove. I fastened the cat in a box and thought "Fuck Peace".

I'm hysterical and chaospherical. That's not to say I'm negatively charged. I'm closer to the big krush than the bang, you might say.

Without You

Within You

The First

Some Hallow's Eve (T-N-R-J)

Un Petit Garcon Perdu (To Me At Least)

The Impermanent Privilege of a Pious Child

The actions of a chaplain and his wife have come under posthumous scrutiny in recent weeks as the bizarre, macabre truth regarding the fate of their privately co-operated church school – and its hundred-strong male attendance - was revealed. The genial Englishman and his tirelessly supportive partner, when faced with the government’s decision to clamp down on economically inefficient institutions e.g. their school, could barely reconcile the notion of closing the school, and thus set about preserving their hand-crafted utopia forevermore. On the morning of June 23rd, 1989, the mild-mannered minister had his wife condiment the daily porridge breakfast with a chloroform-based sedative. By lunchtime, all one hundred pupils were in a state of near coma. By early evening, they had each undergone a systematic beheading, and the head of each pupil had been deposited inside the desk of each corresponding body – an act interpreted by this writer as the manifest wish of the chaplain for the children’s minds to remain forever sheltered by this hallowed haven of learning; sheltered – and this is informed conjecture, but conjecture nonetheless – from the malign, corrupting influences of the world beyond the school. The point of severance – the base of the neck, had been cauterised by the chaplain’s wife, and the eyelids had been sliced neatly ensuring the children could never avert their eyes from the mission of learning, and would always be gazing longingly beyond the stars towards heaven, where God, in his infinite wisdom, whiled his days fashioning and nurturing experience to be drip-fed into the plasma of those below graced with open eyes, yearning ears and thirsting hearts.

James was fourteen. He used to ride a motorbike around the adjacent cemetery. In exchange for this privilege he was expected to engage in sex acts with the other boys, a discipline he observed willingly, and even hungrily. The chaplain never attempted to intervene or participate in these acts, nor did he force his wife to spectate, despite her oft-expressed wishes to do so. He merely dictated the nature of the acts whose performance he desired to watch. Every Sunday, after service, he would excuse James from his elocution lesson and lead him daintily towards the belfry, where another boy, selected moments before, would be waiting, bound to, say, a fire extinguisher. The chaplain would motion James towards the bound and naked boy – and the ‘guest’s were nearly always slightly younger than James – and a series of predetermined gestures would indicate the narrative of positions and emissions that were to manifest. On this occasion for instance, James was required to slice the garments away from the boy’s quaking body, using a scalpel donated by the chaplain, mount him from behind, and engage in a violent and relentless session of anal intercourse with him, until, just prior to ejaculation, he would withdraw, and replace the presence of his penis inside the screaming child, with that of the fire extinguisher nozzle, thus inducing a simulated ejaculation when the trigger is pulled. The chaplain and James would frequently exchange wry glances in the event of the recipient’s convulsive shaking and wordless hollering, the likes of which were often evident at this point. After, generally, about thirty seconds of foam had been emptied into the boy’s bowels, James would remove the nozzle, replace it upon the cradle of the extinguisher and re-enter the humiliated boy with his own eager flesh. This time, he would softly massage his bruised and violated bowels, in opposition to the propulsive rape-like momentum of the earlier penetration. He’d attempt to soothe the boy with the ruffling of hair, the whispering of reassurances, the delicate application of warm lips across tensed, writhing neck. At the instruction of a further gesture by the chaplain, James would deliver an awesome and almighty thrust deep into the captive boy’s colon, a transmutation of force; an alchemical transference of energies, and the boy’s anal cavity would seethe with a suspension of fire extinguisher foam and James’ freshly expelled ejaculate, dizzying in its ferocious potency. The boy would often enter a quasi-comatose state at this point, usually in response to the shocking power of the ultimate thrust administered by James, and thus would commence phase two of the narrative of pleasure. None of the other children were permitted to ever touch James’ motorbike, let alone ask to borrow it. The boy would at this point be unbound from the fire extinguisher and laid supine on the cold, tiled floor of the belfry. James’ penis typically by now, would be statuesque in its engorgement, conditioned as he was to the regular series of acts he was invited to oversee. He would position himself astride the boy, whose own awareness of all things drifted between total and none. He would passionately enclose the boy’s smaller mouth in his; a kiss, to which the boy, confused by his own lapses into unconsciousness, would learn to reciprocate. James would tenderly massage the boy’s genitals with his right hand, stimulating them into a state of arousal, all the while devouring his immaculate mouth and tongue. Once the boy had achieved total arousal, James would recoil from the boy’s head, and apply his mouth with consistent passion, to the aching and aloft penis. This he would palpate and tenderise with his lips, tongue and throat, with a professionalism some might suggest belied over-rehearsal. The boy would groan in thrall to James’ expert manipulations, his head bobbing, clammy palms impacting with the cold, unevenly set tiles, his febrile stupour breaking into a desirous sweat. James, at this level of experience, could anticipate to within ten seconds the imminence of orgasm, and would invariably withdraw his mouth from the engorged organ at this point. The boy would lift his head quizzically, stare with a look of disappointment morphing rapidly into terror as James, fire extinguisher already raised, would land the heavy cylinder catastrophically on the boy’s head, with enough force to stun him further, but insufficient that his skull might fracture. Still, an elegant smear of dark blood appeared on the boy’s left temple, which James immediately licked clean. As regards the impending orgasm of the boy: the terror previously writ across his face in expectation of impact with the fire extinguisher elicited a sequence of mild spasms, the last of which coincided with the emission of a proud plume of semen – little doubt as to the terror’s contribution to his orgasm; a concession James liked to make when late night reminisces of the day’s actions served to haunt him. The fire extinguisher is henceforth a redundant article and can be cast from the reader’s minds with the whimsy of a discarded contraceptive. James would scratch and nibble at the surface temple wound, tearing off shavings and cuticle-like excerpts of skin and other matter. Occasionally, the chaplain would permit James a moment of improvisation, thus freeing himself from the responsibility of instruction; put more crudely, allowing his hands a period wherein they might masturbate. James, for instance, during this window of spontaneity, might grab at the boy’s withering penis and twist it, the scrotal sack attempting a tandem twist, however futilely. On one occasion, James elected to attend entirely to the torment of the boy’s organ, and promptly dug his un-cut, grubby nail deep into its slitted reddening mouth. This drew blood. James, enraged and excited by the appearance of blood, would then peel back the passive boy’s foreskin with clenched teeth, and at a moment’s inspiration, drag the redundant slip of skin sheer away from the organ, before fellating the bloodied and flimsy mess with a greedy vigour. He’d jam the excised foreskin deep inside one of the boy’s nostrils and laugh dirtily in anticipation of the boy’s hyperventilating. Sporadically, he’d roll the boy onto his stomach, and fuck him viciously, just for long enough to re-instigate a state of maximum arousal. Then, supine once more, he’d resume his unravelling of the chosen boy, the chaplain enthusiastically masturbating all the while. James would then reach for whatever playful instruments lay strewn about, in this case, a half-empty tin of white emulsion, which he’d prise open with the boy’s skeletal, passive finger, and stir with his similarly thin and docile hand. Then he’d approach the head of the boy, paint under his arm, force the boy’s red-rimmed mouth open unnaturally wide with his fist, and proceed to tip the thick, glutinous silk deep into his gagging throat. James would smear any overspill into the boy’s sad, crimson-bordered eyes, and the screaming would escalate symphonically, albeit filtered through several inches of half-swallowed emulsion. James would be momentarily distracted by the encroachment of multiple splatters of semen from the chaplain, shooting across his arched back, but this would insignificantly affect the momentum of his charge. He’d find a wooden clothes peg resting beneath a ladder and insert this up the boy’s one unoccupied nostril, adopting the paint tin as a hammer with which to galvanise the peg’s journey towards the boy’s frenzied, addled brain. Once the protruding end of the peg was framed by an ample trickle of blood, and only an inch of wood was visible, James relented, and rolled the boy over for a further bout of heavy sustained fucking. This time he’d bite the shoulder and neck with the super-enforced strength of a serial killer, leaving hatches of glimmering blood wherever he set his teeth. The boy’s body, completely flaccid and given, would writhe only in response to the force expelled upon it by James, whose evangelical devotion to his own sexual satisfaction engendered a radical doubling of his physical potency. He’d grab another couple of pegs and hammer them unceasingly into the soft patches behind the kidneys, until the peg either splintered, or entered the flesh whole. A cocktail of vomit, paint and blood, occasionally bile, would spill across the tiles, seeping insidiously between the gaping cracks, as though embarrassed by the ferocity of James’ assault. James would come to recognise the potential of the ladder, and upon doing so, retrieve it from the wall and lay it adjacent to the disintegrating boy.. After rummaging about the boy’s anal cavity with his hand, depositing all manner of rusty metal objects within it – nails, staples, etc, he’d lift the slackening boy from the floor, cradle him fleetingly, and proceed to weave his submissive, unconscious body through the ladder, threading it in and out of the rungs, with no small force, and with generous concession to preternatural contortion. Despite this concession, not once was a bone heard snapping. As James configured the boys’ barely hair-troubled legs through the bottom-most rung, the boy’s sphincter gave way and released a flurry of blood and shit all over James’ busily engaged hands and forearms. James leapt to his feet, nearly skidding on the amalgamation of fluids, and upon regaining full balance, stamped the boy’s fissured groin into unrecognisable pulp. The boy, neatly woven between rungs, could no longer convulse even if consciousness permitted him to, and James flung his shit-clustered hands at the arced face of the boy, his form configured thus: his head squeezed between two rungs, one of which rests across his neck, suppressing his larynx, and making any groaned utterance slightly canine in timbre; a rung impressing into his lower chest from behind, extending between armpits (his arms were free, although impotised by his long-compromised motor function), forcing his chest to protrude as though with pride; a rung across his soft belly, restricting the instinctive spasm of his diaphragm, rendering it an hilarious and pointless tickle; finally, a rung behind his legs, just above the kneecaps, just prohibiting the bending of his knees, but taunting him (insomuch as a sub-comatose humanoid assemblage of flesh could be taunted) with the potentiality of flexing them. James kicked the boy in the head several times from a standing position; an eye became dislodged – posthumously, James would tear out the complete eye and sew it into the boy’s feeble scrotum, the displaced testicle being correspondently accommodated in the available eye socket. James hoisted the ladder aloft, so as he might face the delirious, bleeding child and whispered further reassurances, delivered a final punishing kiss, his lips shed by James’ teeth, before lifting the ladder above the ground, ejaculating a final time, and throwing the ladder against the floor – it fell a full ninety-degree arc and landed squarely against the harsh, un-absorptive tiles. Only at this point could the shattering of bones be prominently deciphered. The boy’s decimated body snapped in at least three places, thus rendering him open to – once unravelled from the ladder – an infinite and diverse array of sexual positions normally off-bounds to less intrepid fetishists of the young male form, and which James and the chaplain devoted the remainder of the Sunday to the exploitation thereof, in a blissful synergy of shared discovery and unbridled innovation. Few were to suspect that in, perhaps as little as a week’s time, notice would arrive by telegram to the effect of the schools’ imminent closure, but at this point, as James propels his ceaselessly hard penis into the bizarrely arranged boy with undiminished enthusiasm, as the chaplain looks on proudly, at least two people were in a position not to care. And thus, James spent Monday’s free periods zipping about the cemetery on his motorbike, weaving between gravestones, quite the accomplished rider, and otherwise went about lessons the same as any other pupil, oblivious to the impermanence of his blossoming idyll, but presently thrilled to be alive and able-bodied.

Nick Hudson.

Romance isn't Dead But/Because Death is Romantic.

I dream of him lying bloated in a coffin-shaped boat, Ophelius in his underwear.

Study in the Mutation of a Dream

Study in The Hallucination of a Boy

Mourning Glory.

I feel too much for him should I leave for and good and permanently how irreversible is emotional damage my heart bleeds from the wounds inflicted by his barbs am I needy or is he more narcissistic than I appreciated all domesticity is violent right do I actually mind being used by him as an object for the deciphering of his sexuality I gave everything so selfishly when fantasy explodes into life with the grace of a tumour why do I feel so remotely orbital to anything else that breathes I can't discern am I a prima donna or am I just bitter about being so innately altruistic do real altruists ever accept rewards do not submit to the warp history is not condemned to repeat itself.

And if it were well I am not history.

The Gut Chronicles: Open Wound

1) From Me To You

Well, it sounds as though in the spirit of all hyperactive schizophrenics, you're operating on several levels simultaneously - The Theorist: who knows what he SHOULD be doing to alleviate these crippling symptoms, The Pragmatist: who attempts to modify his outlook to accommodate all experience, good and bad, as contributive to his ultimate manifestation as a human (see: fallibilism, no such thing as a failed experiment where a result is attained) and The Human ( i.e. Deeply Flawed) who is slow to change and to whom complacency is preferable to discipline. Human beings (homo shitfuckicus) are innately and uniformly lazy. So the feelings you associate with Lisa are warming and comforting and were for some time readily available, you got accustomed, grew complacent, became too dependent, reliant on attaching these feelings to the presence of The Other, namely, Her, wherein The Pragmatist would have the resolve to act upon the advice of The Theorist, and recognize that the source of these feelings is within oneself, and seek to generate a familiar warmth from within. the deeply embedded sense of attachment to The Other grows impotized with time, like a screen on the back of a trailer being driven away from the projector down abstract, grubby little dirt tracks. You're in the Nostalgia phase, because it's easy, but you're also fluctuating between this and the Defiant phase, because you're not by nature a deeply negative and regretful person, so this conflicting interplay between your opposing attributes is creating and unbearable tension, so in this scenario, may seek external guidance in the guise of an overpaid guru manipulator, to defer responsibility for their rehabilitation, but your inner anarchism prohibits the hiring of such a conman, so you're stranded, the onus solely on you to decipher the quagmire and either hurl yourself into the flames, or drag yourself out of the ashes of 'love' and continue moving forward. It took a while but I moved on, maybe adopt a creative outlet, as a private vault for the deconstructing of your apparently inarticulable tensions? And don't indulge in self-deprecation, don't succumb to 'I-am-not-worthy-I'm-shit-and-I-blew-the-only-chance-of-romantic-happines-I'll-ever-have' kind of mindset, because For Fuck's Sake, you're only just 18, ok? Like I said, you're compelling, good-looking, witty, precocious, keep your mind geared in a forward motion and don't allow self-desructive thoughts to malinger...

Look, you don't need to be scared of the future, or if you are, at least bracket the fear to excitement, you've got so much to look forward to, you're not a moron, you're weirdly beautiful (that's a compliment, duh), and you're governed by a tremendous and powerful will. I'll give you a massive boa constrictor hug when I get back, all I'm doing here is masking the durable cliche, it'll all get better and better with time, although half of that is getting desensitised to failure and disappointment, something I've not done, but I guess I'd rather feel alive than inhumanly numb to emotional trauma. At least George revived the human in me. Cunt.

2) 21:47 Morning Glory

Okay, so Joe’s downstairs on my bed attempting to gather his thoughts, I just contrived my excuses and fucked off upstairs to hammer out whatever creases I’ve incurred since we were attacked by glyphs and sigmas and mutant alphabets and shadows warriors and empty signifiers with breasts and hair and giggles and social contrivances that stem the flow of thought with every clouded glance and stifling gesture, eyes pleading, posture fucked. Fucked. How graceful, and all because I lapsed into a slump, like the base of a log flume before you resurface, like I’m riding the crest of a sine wave between states of perception, awareness, layers of consciousness. Whenever a door opens I get amplified segments of Japanese kraut-rock – sympathetic genres because they were both bullied by the Americans….same accounts for their technophilia? My arms bundled like a predatory carnivorous dinosaur, as opposed to those who hunt for plants, I would compare my general physical disposition to that of say, Jeff Goldblum’s fly in an advanced state of metamorphosis. And nobody else would, because they don’t have the warped associative function a) I am graced with and b) between like components and c) as milled through the coloured gels and distorting filters I recently laid across my lens of cognitive awareness. I still have this base yearning to be physically close to Joe so much of the time. I’d like to extract myself from the wake and brush and wrestle myself free of seaweed, just so I can ride the tide more airily, not weighted by such irreconcilable and irrational mutations of thought. At this point it’s totally futile presenting the conundrum in which cradles the notion ‘falling in love’, if the intention is to deduce something cogent and tangible… But I do sense a hair of longing if I peer at the sun, the sun being the body from which all things emanate, namely, microcosmically, the soul, if you will. And I don’t want this hair of longing to infect and sour our relationship, and yet the more I consciously negotiate my longing, the more detached from our mutual abstracted being he seems to be, as though my internally entertained desire (?) were attacking him with such weight that he can support himself leaning into this wind no longer. Or, am I creating a matrix of anxieties, a cat’s cradle of weak-willed wishes and paranoia traps, just by chewing over every conscionable permutation of energies and transferences and codes available within the parameters of me, Joe and the world and our individual and collective perception of it and they? For instance, is he by nature quite selfish? And an etiquette relapse punches him in the gut periodically, he repents, the deprogramming slurs to a flatline, and he reverts to deep, dense black hole into which all matter is hoovered and atomised? Or is my sexual pathology so pathetic and needy that I invent cities of subterfuge and conspiracy to reinforce the notion of my being strong and independent? Is this ALL, absolute and utter bullshit, undoubtedly to some if not many people, but it’s language arranged in what appears to me to be a navigable syntax, and as such shouldn’t be totally incomprehensible.

3) 22:12 Morning Glory Part 2

Or am I just being a drama queen? Or am I too self-conscious to actually be anything authentically at least in this state, or is this everyone’s actual make-up, only they’re less aware of it. Perhaps I should apply my agitated and hyper-aware and over-stimulated state to a more creative and pragmatic enterprise. My, this IS beautiful use of language, are you turning into a classicist, my boy? Ok, here goes, I’m post-natally depressed because I just gave birth to the devastating and numbing gambit that I WANT LOVE. How to start a novel, grab your readers by the heart-strings and strum a blinding and captivating overture, Thor’s Hammer squarely pounds their pliable heads into receptive aerials, dedicated to the time and travails of you, you, you. Where does style become substance, and on whose turf does the handshake take place?

4) Epiphany’s Terror

I don’t know what to do. I’m bordering on actual insanity. I find myself craving a holiday from myself. And the impossibility of this intensifies the claustrophobia into absolute crippling discomfort in my own skin. Perhaps I’m too tired to think properly, to efficiently isolate and process thoughts and concepts. I’m really quite scared. Maybe I flirted too recklessly with the edges of sanity, I really want Joe to…I don’t know. I feel very alone again. I sense he’d drop everything for Lisa, and that perhaps I’m largely convenient in her absence. Which makes his deflowering of my ass sore beyond the ephemeral physical soreness. And yet I’m now totally hooked sexually on him, and it seems apparent that this is pretty unrequited, and something I should get over. But he’s been inside my body, something nobody else in the world has achieved, and he’s still there, and it felt so good, and now I’ve relapsed into another junkie fixation, and I can’t get the memory of that sensation, or it’s significance, out of my acutely and relentlessly analytical head. So I’m obsessing myself into a muddy, debilitating depression, and consigning myself to an ever lonelier secrecy. Me, alone in a white door-less room, piggy-in-the-middle to a head full of giggling demons. I keep getting a glimpse, a taste of love. It’s always retracted immediately that I embrace it or recognise it as such. He can’t give what I want from him and it’s unfair to ask it of him, and yet, the body yearns so dumbly, in key signatures so at odds with the mind whose symphonies I conduct with such assured vigour.

5 )Ground Zero: Plea To An Anonymous Ear

Hey,

I've never done this before, but for some reason it seems easier airing this stuff to someone I don't necessarily know. I'm a 24 year old musician/artist/writer, gay, and in unrequited love with my housemate, who's 18. His father's the live-in landlord, and he doesn't like his son, but he's also homophobic. Joe, the son, and I are amazingly close friends with a strong emotional/intellectual resonance, more powerful than almost any connection I've ever felt. We're also responsible drug buddies, obsessed with exploring the far-out reaches of consciousness, in an experimental, and respectful way, we've shared - and hopefully will continue to share - some profound times together. Anyway, I found myself entertaining sexual ideas about him. My sexual pathology's an odd one, in that there were some nasty experiences as a kid, which programmed some pretty bad wiring in me, wherein I'd associate sex with violence, as in, I eroticised the violence inflicted on me, probably as a defense policy. Oh, and a babysitter when I was eight used to push me down the stairs and force-feed me alka seltzer, repeatedly. So, only child me, became very distrustful, alienated, found it hard to make friends. Then reconciled the idea that I was gay, raised in a shitty redneck wilderness driven by bigotry and homophobia, so i didn't come out to anyone/'enjoy' any sexual encounters until I'd left for university, when i was nineteen. And even then they were fleeting, unsatisfactory one-night-stands that had me quietly devastated. So I guess I'm somewhat retarded in that sense. But otherwise I'm probably quite advanced. Quantity theory of personal development. So now most people know I'm gay, still haven't told my parents, I find that idea so hard to manifest and reconcile. I'm friends with my favourite author, who's helped me immeasurably in terms of sexual identity - I despise the whole gay scene, the homogenised spandex, peroxide quiff, Hi-NRG stuff, so for ages I felt lost, alienated from everyone, never having belonged to any community, because I'm pretty singularly individual, find it hard to relate to the majority of people...my passions being creative, anarchistic, deprogramming stuff, Dennis Cooper's work helped in its depiction of a non-collective gay identity. So we entered into correspondence and he loves my music and writing, and I played at a literary festival in honour of his work, so my artistic career's growing wings which obviously feels amazing. And I've got brilliant friends, not least of which is Joe. Still, two wednesdays ago - and we'd/we've been growing ever closer for a while - he took ecstacy, and decided he wanted to try sexual stuff with me. He knew back then that I'm really into him, so we did, he took my virginity, I guess, and it felt amazing. Since then however, he's decided that he actually doesn't have sexual feelings for me, he's got back with his ex-girlfriend and I'm plagued with crippling loneliness and attacks of devastating longing for further sexual stuff with him. He knows that he used me to work out his sexuality, so I feel slightly exploited, and guilty for feeling that way, because I enjoyed it so much, the single-most profound sexual experience of my life so far. So now I'm totally attached to him sexually, and yet we're deeply in love as platonic soul mates, and I don't want our having sex to jeopardise that, as I get jealous of he and his girlfriend. So I'm finding it hard to separate the various strands of our relationship. He's my ideal boyfriend. I've never had a long-term relationship in my life, and here us two are, in the same house, and it's so perfect except for that one missing component - we sleep together, cuddle etc, but I just can't provide sexual fulfillment for him. So I'm slightly heartbroken, even though what we DO have is profound and invaluable. I'm just so tired - and it is exhaustion - of being alone, even around company I often feel totally alone, the designated fate for only children? I feel kind of under--developed, I see everyone else complacently entrenched in their relationships and think, why not me? I know that these few encounters in my very early-teens seriously fucked with my programming, but I work that out in my writing and music, and that's liberating, and people tell me it's totally courageous. And that means so much. Still, whenever I'm alone, increasingly my mind wanders to the Joe situation, he drives me wild, and so few people do - I'm probably fairly sociopathic, or at least a romantic idealist, still believing as I do, in perfect love. I really thought this could be it. And we'd have been invincible. But, alas, no. Everything but the sex, which I guess I've mythologised into something Hindenberg-esque in stature and density. I actually get on with so few people, I have no acquaintances, and I guess I must sound vaguely whiny and spoilt...but there remains always, just this hole. Thanks for existing, I didn't/don't know who else I could've turned to, I can tell my family less each day, my life is pretty outrageous and experimental, but sometimes, I get these windows where I'd just love to evacuate myself from my own head, and live a hetero-normative dog-wife-car-regular-job-style existence...but then I think, well, at least I feel utterly alive. Oh, yeh, I've been jobless for four months now, and I've been so prolific with my art, and yet of course, my money's trickling urgently away, and I'm gonna have to get something. I was in retail, but it was killing me inside. I probably drink way too much, but that acts as a purge - I assume the role of wise-cracking, avant-garde 'performer' when I'm drunk, I'm predisposed to entertaining people I guess, smoke and mirrors perhaps? I dunno. I'm getting freaked out now, my mind's getting overwhelmed with all of the data I'm trying to unravel. Thanks, hope you're able to make sense of some of this. There's so much more to say, but this is already way too long, I just needed to say at least something. It's a really sticky predicament - we're supposed to be moving out together which I'm super-excited about, and I guess in Brighton I'll be in a position conducive to meeting people, but right now, in this house, it's claustrophobic and I feel like I'm gonna implode.

Thanks for your time,

Nick.

Cooperfest