People tell me, when I ask: that their life is pretty much the same as it was yesterday, there is nothing new to tell. Now, personally, I know this isn't true. Things change extremely rapidly. That proud sandbar we like to stand so solid on is quickly worn away by the calculated drift of decimal approximation and the necessity of rounding errors. You think things will last forever, but they don't, really it doesn't. Every situation seems to come pre-packaged with it's best-before date stamped indelibly on the plastic.

All leaves, autumn or otherwise, are washed downwards by the rain, forever towards the gutter and out into the sea.

We could be, you and me, a compliment of opposites: like sweet'n'sour pork... or salt & vinegar crisps. The first time I ever saw you I felt like a stuck pig, bleeding out in pure bliss on the knife edge of your sweetness. You cut me to the quick. No industrial apple corer could ever leave me feeling more hollow, so deliciously empty, full of wanting and wanton desire than you left me, left completely breathless, asphyxiated by your trace.

This is the kind of lunacy that could tear a man to scraps and pieces, but, honestly, would you swap it? Seems to me people always tend to complain more about their aches than they do about their amputations, but as for me: I already cut off all my limbs in advance.

Individual moments of pure madness, unadulterated by common-sense and then stacked each on top of one another, falling over, eventually they make up a life.

If only I was ever more than words, my turns of phrase only ever seem to lasso smoke, my nets catch nothing but water. Anyway... aaaanyway, many years of experience have made me pretty good at this whole unrequited thing, but my point is, you will always be beautiful regardless.

You got that with you, it's yours forever, nobody can steal it. Maybe Jupiter slipped a slice of moon in your mouth, who knows.

Anyway, I'll never get to say this to your face: I hear they admire sunsets even in the ghettos of Calcutta—I think you are possibly the brightest star in the entire planetarium.

Anyway, sorry it had to come from me.

Many of the girls today, they don't eat enough mince & cheese pies, know what I'm sayin'. Attractive enough... in the face, but no curves! skin all hanging off them like a stack of towel rails. Yeah, it's a problem for me. Real men don't cry! and for that matter neither do I. But sometimes a simple minor breakdown can be surprisingly, somewhat marvellously cathartic. I try and pencil one in at least once a week or as time allows. It's sometimes difficult, trying to reconcile the labyrinthine accounts of my actions in my head, attempting to balance the cheque book of my prick against, well.

Been thinking, I've been thinking about trust. And, now, admittedly I am a scumbag – and also awesome, filth and slime and kittens and love, two coins of the same side. But trust that is good enough; the right size, round about, a good handful, that'll do me, that's all I expect; cos I reckon, people fuck up. They fuck up all the time. I myself, fuck up more than most and faster than many, and am frequently not in a position to judge (though I frequently do). I've done some bad things. I have taken the low road on many an occasion. Actually, to be honest, the idea of me trying to judge anybody else is pretty much morally hilarious. Like you expect a trial your peers and instead get a sympathetic jury of incestuous goat fiddlers, you feel dirty even when you get off.

Trust though is kinda fluid, you gotta take a long range view. when every candle of the soul is tallied, if it's worth it in the long run, then it's worth it right now.

Sometimes I get the feeling I'm actually pretty warped.