When the dirty man on the TV upstairs laughs, he sounds like the way my Dad sounds sometimes,and sometimes I know that the pigmen, who read the football commentary repeat the books I read, which leaves me trying to stifle my laughter sometimes, I even read the Koran, last night, adn it explained a few things to me...

I have been laying around in dirty clothes for days, in fact not so much laying around but I can't remember, I have already even put my coat in the washing machine becasue it stinks of smoke and pollution...

I have been told by the wind to give up this poison, the cigarettes...still the tourettes jumps around in everyone's brains, like I read a little snippet of rubbish iw rote on some paper, whilst a 'bully' boy is down there outside hounding me...and repeating what i read or even think...

'what he had all these women? I said kidnap them!...soemthing soemthing...

I can't phone the advertiser, (she has already spoekn to someone else, I am destined to never meet someone, and although I have met that someone, and something magic happened, I can not write to her witout feeling pathetic, and worried about the social worke finding this strange if I talk about her, and really it is all FUCKING SHIT)I nearly hate this world, my eyes keep going funny...

I lay around and listen to the wind, and remember today someone that makes me get up and clean the flat and begin a first sketch of an image i wake up with in my brain; Joyce Johnson,...like I should read her poems, and the wind replies, thank you, girl...something like that...and this image you see hasnt scanned very well, but i still have a vague memory of the actual image in mind, the thing is;

it's not an image, it is a ready made painting that comes through in my dream, perhaps it is my lungs, (hold off the smoking) or those round parts like a blast or snow...

my eyes keep going funny, becaue I get affected by everything, and actually, my eyesight is getting worse and worse, like, i can only see about 15 cm in front of me clearly

So, the wind; we talk or rathe i listen or rather, i completely ignre and cannot remember a single thing, in fact i had an awful day yesterday despite this, with the 'man in shop' whose sooooo fucking rude...'lalalal you and your gay friends.' mate, i ain't got any, and don't go making me cal you an Infidel, and aP....because that makes me hate myself.

And conversation, I'm lucky, despite all this because....

what?

to be continued....but I think everyone is dying....

I really want to write to her but don't know what to do...

coming out, again, and in again, like an endless cycle...