Oh lords! That abyss! Yawning yearning crack of hopeless hope. Equals nothing. Your countenance has ne'er appeared sweeter than those few moments ago when I swooned in your apocalyptic vision.

To be not.

To not be.

A stillness quieter than when the wind drops like a bad curtain across the vast moor under a moonless black night.

A stillness that fair makes a mountain look like a waltz in sad comparison.

So still.

But how to lie still without rendering (ed-rending?) loved ones hearts? This pattern of destroying the living image so no falsity lives on in death is tiresome.

If entropy is the universe's goal,

then despair is her stallion carrying her there.

Alas, tonight I truly felt death's hand caress my neck. Mr H*******, sleep well for lone you be not long.(ed - Mr H OD'd on a bus near Ipswich with B I think. I was on my way to see Mr H when I was busted in 1995)


Midnight Thursday. Waiting to be plucked out of society like a fly from the proverbial soup. Who to tell?

Mars Attacks is not so great!.