The end!

00:12 p.m.
There is maybe just one moment left of the dial-up! So we cling. The wireless thing gave everyone cancer who had it and they all died. After they paid their dues for the wireless thing happening, and the hard rain fell and everything was covered with darkness and haar, there was only me and little Jack left in the whole blogosphere. He was so thin. He shivered all the time. Sometimes he sat down and didn't want to move until I handed him a biscuit. We're carrying the fire, I said to him. Fung off, you pederast, he replied.

I've become a completely huge Cormac McCarthy fan since I read All the Pretty Horses, which I enjoyed much more than I did The Road. The former was about being young. The latter might have been written by an old joe. Who knows? There are other ones after the Pretty Horses which I will have to buy and read. The Road is completely fung brilliant of course.

I am not able to quite reach completion at the moment. I was handed a box of computery things to assemble this morning and I did meditate all day in the l0bby except when I tried to get the beepy things to work, and I suppose that was quite a time. Then I did the physical jerks, and then I sat down in the lobby again, and whenever anyone talked to me I felt tired, but I did not feel tired in the bliss.

I do not have the Four Foundations, or even the one foundations, or any foundations organised. I just don't have that.

Does this not make it slightly tricky, Hotboy? Well, Jack, almost nobody has even garnered the first foundation and I can't even remember what that is!

Everywhere I look there is nothing but flatheids, Jack.
Don't look then.
I have to look.
No, you don't.
Will the flatheids all die, Jack?
I hope not, but I think they will.
What if you looked and there were not flatheids, Hotboy?
Well, if I looked and there were no flatheids, what would there be?
Maybe there would be continuum? Space. Arising and declining. Thoughts. Just thoughts.
Would there be any girlfriends?
I think after a while, there might not be any girlfriends.
Well, what will there be, Hotboy?
If we are lucky, there will just be thoughts, Jack. Just thoughts. Arising and abiding and declining.

I think Cormac McCarthy must come from Northern Ireland and be pissed all the time he's writing this stuff like all the great writers.