Wednesday 10:25 p.m.
The old, toothless one and moi ran from Stockbridge, along Hamilton Place, down MacDonald Road .... round Arthur's Seat through the Meadows.... and everywhere. This is the beautiful, wonderful city at its best! Clear and cold in the sunshine. The folk who have left these shores have failed to understand the subtleties of joy you can get around these parts. When you are not getting hammered, everything looks fantastico.

It knocked the seven shades of crap out of me, so it did. The old, toothless one is on the monkey glands so it's okay for him. I'm running on old. But I'm still running. Or jogging. More like padding.

I should not be doing this. Such is the bliss. I should just be doing the bliss.

The usual photie of from the bus stop in Princes Street. And a tree for my friend in the north. And I found another message from The Alien Creatures from Outer Space. They are waiting for moi behind the moon. The message says: Don't worry about abandoning the flatheids.

You are let off for now. The too dumb to meditate will always be too dumb to meditate. That's just the way they are. They will never experience the bliss.

Does it make you cry, Hotboy? It does a bit, Jack. But what can you say? I'm a bit of a flatheid myself. Oh, they'll never get the bliss. They'll never get the bliss! Ee Aye Adio, they'll never get the bliss!

Beneficence. Why is there bliss there? What the fung is it?

The anatomical description doesn't match the experience. We need a different description of what we are.