Changes.

Sunday 8:45 p.m.
Tree photies of the end of the winter really. Life will spring forwards soon. In your face.

No tobacco today. Lots of wine to compensate. A middle way, Jack! We have to find the middle way!

My £100 computer stack in the bedroom has been collapsed for a month or so. So I've been reading books since you have to do something when you go in there to smoke joints. I've read The White Tiger, which won a Booker prize. Not brilliantly written, but a very good and interesting subject. All about how the evil bourgeois in India are a lot of complete basturns, even as bad as the ones in Afghanistan viz a viz the Kite Runner. I was expecting to like Vernon Little God Vernon, or whatever, another Booker winner, but it's not good enough. I'm reading David Beniof's City of Thieves just now, which I'm sure will be very worth the while....

What is the point of all this writing, Jack? No point, Hotboy. Even Jesus will soon be out of print. You should have tried to make some money, son, got a nice house and a motor car, and made the poor basturns whose loins you sprung from proud.

Would it have made them proud? I think not. You only get your hand shaken when you've taken on a mortgage if you are sprung from the evil bourgeois, who can only mark their passage through the times with such insubstantiality since they can never get over the toilet training and do not know about ra bliss.

However, I now have £35 in the overdraft to do me until I get paid at the end of the month and I should have paid more attention to that.

What about the bliss, Hotboy? There are basturns who would bite your arms off for £35! How is the bliss getting on?

Well, Jack, if I could forget about the adults in the jobbie and just talk about other folks' kiddos, then we'd be getting somewhere. The blissheid surfer on the oceans of bliss, with more than £35 to his bank's name and just relaxing and doing the bliss.

I have to become a criminal, Jack. Or write about criminals and stealing money and doing the bliss. Since I was off two weeks ago, I cannot not go to the jobbie even although I'm getting pissed. No freedom! No freedom! Fung them! I sure I could write a book at least as insubstantial than either of the three books I've read recently. You could tell looking at them that these writers did not know anything about the bliss, or really much else. Patterns of words. Anybody should be able to do patterns of words about how the evil bourgeois are awful. We all bloody well know that. Ugly basturns as well! Give me a gun and I'll shooty shooty the lot of them!