The standard beginning: I carefully strained the poppy tea through an unwashed sock and then slid it out into a whiskey tumbler. It's a little known fact that properly prepared poppy-seeds make an excellent all-round mental tonic and a valuable elixir of general physical health. They even help you lose weight. This batch however was unfortunately weak, and I was forced to drink large volumes of the foul tasting liquid before I began to feel the usual effects.

Everywhere about the muted sounds, the surrounding hum of spider drums echoes hollow from distant rooms and star-flung corridors. I am in my temple. This is where I come to worship. I don't know: the day to day, it's just not enough, maybe perhaps for any of us. All we got for the sacred is the regular drunken circus carnival of friday nights, a free-wheeling carousel of random fragments where anything, hopefully everything could happen.

And I need that. You'd go nuts without it. Need to let go of the reins every once and a while and let the old packhorse follow it's nose. These mad enraged elephants out on the town, crazed in our lunatic honesty, and sometimes things go unpleasantly, because we ourselves are unpleasant. But sometimes things are wonderful.

This is my temple, where I go to tell the truth, or aspects of it. Distortions, exaggerations, hopelessly myopic versions of the truth, but the truth; it is a grand lie and larceny of the facts, stolen and given a fresh coat of paint and sold back to the original owner. It frustrates me when I can't easily get to the core of people. I want to know! More! About you! Because I find you, in the broadest sense, endlessly fascinating. An origami kaleidoscope I could unfold and unfold forever. People rarely illuminate themselves, and catching shadows is hard work. I like getting to know them, appreciating the perfection in their flaws.

Today I met the woman who works in the office one over from me. She's a sub-editor for some magazine, and in her spare time she writes poetry she never shows anyone. Maybe that's her temple.

I feel faintly bored, there's not enough drama in my life. I live, feed off the crash of cymbals.

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