I had expected it to be a decaying building crumbling in a piss-soaked alleyway, like so many hookers. Instead, it was to be found next to a busy road in one of the trendiest parts of the city. How I loathed that. But I was already here. There would be plenty of time to find somewhere else the following day. On the approach, I saw a policeman, talking to a guy with blonde dreadlocks and tatty clothing. I knew I was in the place, whether or not it was the right one, I was not confident saying. The conversation was amiable, but about what I was not sure. I walked past them, turned the corner and saw the people outside. Dreadlocks 2.0. Different versions of the same guy around the corner. One with a hacky sack, looking as if he had seen too many bad American college movies. Next to the entrance, which was closed, was a dirty yellow sofa with stuffing sticking out of the arms, and of the back. On the far right, was a another dreadlocked fellow playing something twee on an acoustic guitar, held together with copious amounts of duct tape. The outside walls were covered in a mixture of big graffiti and smaller tags and anti-establishment logos. I tried the door, but it was locked. I took a couple of steps back and looked up. Every window seemed to be boarded up. Whether that was to compensate for the lack of glass or  whether it was against the inevitable eviction, I couldn’t tell, though it seemed unlikely that even the most pro-private property instruments of state violence would fly in through second or third floor windows. But what did I know?

“Can I help you there fella?” came a voice. Looking round, I saw the sofa player looking right at me, still finger picking on what should have long ago become firewood. “You want something?”


“I see, do you know what that would happen to be?”

“Afraid not. But somewhere to stay would be a start.”

“I see. You’re looking for somewhere to stay?”


“And you think you might find that here?”

“Or somewhere else. Depends on the situation.”

“How much money do you have?” he asked, putting the guitar down for the first time.

“None.” I replied, “certainly not for you.”

“Oh now, are we full of the capitalist drive. I smell a narc.”

“I smell something too. It certainly ain’t Lynx.”

“Something wrong with the smell of the human body is there?” he asked, standing up and approaching me.

“When it smells like that probably. You might want to get that checked out. This isn’t America, we have a National Health Service, you know.”

“Why don’t you fuck off?”

“Please. Are there any grown up I can talk to?”

“You can talk to me if you like.” The Dreadlocks who had been talking to the cop was walking towards us, looking affable, but I suspected that was the same face whether he was welcoming an old friend or setting fire to vagrants in the park. He smiled and I noticed he had a mouth full of healthy looking teeth, which struck me as bizarre given his dishevelled garments. “Jesus, Brody, what the fuck? You smell like shit.”

“Fuck you.” He snapped.

“Nice comeback.” He turned his attention to me as “Brody” slunk off back to his sofa and guitar. “Now, what can I do you for?”

“For starters,”

“For starters?” Got a lot of demands I take it?” His smile not delineating the implied hostility of the words.

“Time will tell. But for right now, I only need somewhere to crash.”

“Just run away from home have ya?”

“Don’t know where home is. One of the other things I’m looking for,” I said, trying not to sound like a cunt, and failing badly.

“Well, I don’t know about a home for you, but you are welcome to stay with my family for a while, if you like. They’re alright, for the most part. Even Brody. It’s just we’re all a bit on edge at the moment. They’re trying to evict us, once again. They want to turn out beautiful abode into another faceless, corporate hipster-friendly gastro pubs. Like those cunts don’t have enough places to eat their gourmet, processed shit.”

“OK.” He moved towards the door. I began to follow. Suddenly he stopped.

“You’re not a cop are you?” he asked, “if you are, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” I said.

“Are you sure?” he said. I could tell whether or not he was joking.

“Pretty sure. But I’m not, so it’s a moot point at the moment.”

“Moot.” He repeated and stood there for a moment. Then he went forward. He pulled out a key, slipped a bit of board out of the way and unlocked the door. A smell of unidentifiable origin wafted out into the street. I was somewhat taken aback. Not even Brody’s odour had prepared me for it. He disappeared into the darkness. After getting a final lungful of clean air I crossed the threshold.


As if finally arriving at the gates of Hades, the vessel finally comes to halt, only this time not in a smorgasbord of poison-spewing monstrosities and slightly-less poisonous bland-mobiles as eco-terrorist, death fetishists weave in and out of traffic like charcoal-burnt sperm weaving in and out, desperate to fertilize the nearest ovum. But then that is the symbolism of the motorcycle. Potency. But of what of the car? Impotence. The fat, the lazy, to ready to settle, settle for less, settle for anything.

The roads are the veins of the industrialised nation and ours are clogged. The country is dying, only it doesn’t know it yet. A kick start and the blockage is removed, only to flow through the arteries looking for a new place to stop. Then it does. Then it is freed. But such games can only go on for so long before the blockage becomes permanent and the patient dies. But perhaps the country will die of old age first. People are living longer, but not better. Obesity is at an all time high. People, even when they keep their faculties are increasingly unable to look after themselves. But they also refuse to die. A nation of obese OAPs sitting on the chest of the welfare state, choking the life out of it, one heavily salted snack at a time.

People are having fewer children and people don’t want young people coming over to work. But they also don’t want to work any longer or any harder. But the money has to come from somewhere. Living isn’t free. True in so many ways, but specifically, it is true financially. Soon we will become a nation of the enfeebled, unable to go to the toilet or even remember our own names. Our children will be like strangers. The dying will outnumber the living. Instead, we will be hooked into life-support machines offering liquidised food and catheter tubes, with one warden and a mop taking care of 50-250 patients per floor. A Dementia Matrix. There is no need to take the pill to forget. Nope, the other one won’t help you remember.

But still people will refuse to die. Their quality of life reduced to zero and still they refuse to die. And for those with the sense to die, with the passion for life extinguished, with the final moment of clarity see that life is not always the best option, will beg for death, beg for humanity. And humanity will turn around and deny them the right to die, deny them the right to end their suffering and their misery. For the voluntary ending of a dying person’s suffering and misery is immoral. Yes, forcing someone to live a brain-rotted, free-bowel moving non-existence with no way to even get out of bed, in constant pain and sickness, alone and decaying, that is morality. That is humane. Society is judged on the way it treats it’s dying. And we treat them like shit. And we’re proud of it. Our great Christian heritage. Let the poor suffer for it is not up to us to choose to help those who suffer, even when they ask for it, beg for it, plead for it. Not even when they sue for it. So when they kill us all, it will be their revenge, their finest hour. It will be their final moment of glory and it will be our own fault. For we deserve it. It is already due, but better late than never. Just like this bus. But I have nowhere in particular to go so I am not overly fussed.

We are all eventually ejaculated out of the bus, though for a moment it did appear unlikely. A mini-blockage. A kidney stone blocking the path. Too many bags. Hours to prepare for the climax, but woefully unprepared. Stuck on one chair, then another, hits a person in the face. Like a Three Stooges picture, but less realistic. Finally, we are all out and the stop is littered with brown and black drops like a herd of sheep have just passed through. We collect the droppings and head into the station main. I stop for a moment, try to get my bearings. It isn’t easy. I hear a half-dozen different conversations in as many languages. Everywhere people perched, waiting for nothing particularly obvious. A friend, a lover, a dealer, a target. Who can tell? The bus station is the great equaliser, we are all victims here. I walk down the corridor, a single bag slung over my shoulder. Not much of worth, but enough to keep me going for a while, at least.

Everyone I pass looks at me and I look at them. At first I think it is something personal, but then realise it is just the way in the station. It is the custom. Everyone is evaluated. Not necessarily for any particular reason, more a way of passing the time. Thousands of people pass through every day, each of them with their own collection of stories. Tens, hundreds of thousands of stories every day. Yet only a handful are of any interest. Most are tourists doing the same old tourist shtick for the 20 millionth time. Others visiting family members who they haven’t been able to put in a home yet, others travelling for work. Is my story any better, who knows? I certainly don’t. It is only just beginning. But at least it has the potential for something, the potential for the beautiful or the tragic. Death or glory. Mediocrity is not an option. It has been the option for far too many for far too long. It is time for the blandness to end. One way or another, it will end.

The mindless, indecent vacuous viscous collection of matter on the bus. Squeezed like sardines in a can, only with half the appeal. Decaying fish, heated in a contained space, offering no release, no escape. Boring into every particle, it is smelt, tasted, felt, on the skin, in the skin. No number of showers could clean it from you. You will never get used to it, no matter how long you have to sit in it and sit in it you will. For hours. Maybe for the rest of your life. The seat too small, but that is only to be expected. Not that I am too tall, but it is always the way. It is all about the numbers. The people riding the bus have no alternative. Whatever you please, they have no alternative.

Thatcher was right about that at least. But then she did spend her whole political career making sure all other avenues were closed. The end of Saw, the sadistic fuck watching from the middle of the room. He gets up, limbs severed, but at least he gave them the saw. I half expected to see Thatcher standing in the room lecturing the dying and the desperate on the need for personal responsibility. If you didn’t want to bleed to death then you shouldn’t allowed yourself to be captured. You did this to yourself. Yes, I did this. And I am glad I did. Glad is the wrong word, it implies the presence of a positive emotion, rather than the absence of a negative. A temporary suppression of, more likely, but no matter.

The driver, having switched duties and performed the enema, squeezing each suppository in nice and snugly, has taken his place on the throne. A shudder, an initial tingle runs through the body. It has begun. We are moving. From his throne our king delivers his proclamation, his royal decree so that we are all aware of what we must do, what must be done and what the punishments for betrayal will be. Half the people are already tuned out, tuned into their own little worlds, which leak into mine. I am living their lives vicariously, though I have no interest in doing so. Popular culture poisons the air. Heavy basslines, thudding drum loops, wibbly wobbly electronica wibbling and wobbling like a fat person down the walkway. I try to tune them out, but they are on full frequency. All of them merging, twisting, inbreeding to create a parasitic hybrid of a mess, deformed. Dragging its tortured frame out of the netherworld and choosing the seat next to mine. The unwanted travel companion.

Like the fat man whose stench of sweat is a permanent feature of his condition, like the old woman whose mothball odour makes it hard to tell if she hasn’t been prepared for an open casket funeral early. The poor man, long beard, scruffy clothes, alone and slightly insane from the isolation. Brain rotted from Special Brew and aloneness. Still, the last thing you want to do is to reach out, you want to repulse them, to be repelled from them.

Yet when they choose not to sit next to you, the feeling of relief matched, if not surpassed by the sense of rejection. Even the bum, the loner, the drunk feels you are not the sort of person they want to sit by. Is there a worse kind of rejection? From the lowest of the low. How do you come back from that? Tell yourself that you’ve dodged a bullet? Yeah, then why did no-one else sit next to you? Why are you so alone? What is it that makes a person, a busload of people reject you?

Is it personal? Can they sense you are not the kind of person who would make a good travel companion? Is it your clothes, your smell, the look on your face? Are you the crazy guy on the bus? Probably, but can they tell? Who knows? Who knows how others perceive you? Perhaps they can see the real you, see what you are afraid to see. They can see what you think is hidden deep within. They know your soul. But if it is so easy, then why can’t I see who am I? Because if you saw who you truly were, even just a minute, it would be sufficient to break your spirit and your soul. It would throw you into a mental pit of despair from which it is all but impossible to escape. We keep the illusion and the mystery, not for others, but for ourselves. The true self is too ugly, too disturbed and brutalised to be seen by the owner.

We are all Dorian Gray now. The only difference is we trade not eternal features, but a lifelong illusion that we are not who we know ourselves to be. At our lowest we are at our most honest. The more self-loathing, the more disgusted with ourselves we are, the more see the honest reflection of ourself. Our one true self. But we pull back, we always pull back from the brink, for beyond the brink lies madness. Honesty with madness is of no value, so what is to be done? Who knows? No Jesus, no Allah, no Vishnu, no Buddah, no Zeus, Krishna, no Almighty, no Deliverer, none of them. None of them have the answers to the question. Because they do not exist. They are further distractions. Without them we would be forced to realise the question may never be answered. Or we would distract ourselves within the consumer culture. Religion has no answers, just obfuscations masquerading as eternal Truth. But there is only one Truth and very few even think about thinking about trying to obtain it. Well, I’m thinking of trying to obtain it. Which is why I’m on this bus. Heading somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where. All I know is that what I’m looking for can’t be found where I’ve been.

The bus appears, it’s white exterior emblazoned with the air we breathe, an industrial-sized litmus test, charcoal black, like the lungs of a Chinese peasant stewing daily in the by-products of an industrialising country, standing in defiance of thousands of years of culture. Fuck the country. That is the motto of the city. The self-righteous, superior underlings enveloped in the colon of modern civilisation. The city is the anal fissure of society. Is it the open wound and the source of infection. It is from here that all that is wretched it based and is formed. Phallic towers of steel and glass, so strong yet so fragile, thrust mightily into the air before anyone has the time to enquire whether we might not be better off with our shame? Modesty is only modest if it is true. The erection of structures so blatantly masculine we must be sure they are over-compensating for something, if not for themselves for then society as a whole.

Woody Allen once said that the penis envy of Freud extended to men as well as to the opposite. Sex. Pressure of one on another, one in another. One and another. Who would envy the penis? Only those whose desire for possession overrides their common sense, their sense of decency, their sense of self and of humanity. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, unless you own the law. The doors open like the tip of a penis when flaccid, ready to excrete but nothing emerges. Under pressure from all those naked eyes, waiting, expecting, demanding. Too shy to go but too desperate to stay.

Slowly, there is movement, not seen but sensed. Muscles, they contract, slowly at first, uncertain after laying dormant like a hibernating animal woken from its slumber before the spring. First one. Drip. Then another. Drip. A third. A fourth. Drip. Drip. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh. Drip. Drip. Drip. Then it’s all ready to go, the flaccidity becomes a strength, the drips have backed up and begin to flow at a reasonable pace. They flow out as one and disperse at the first opportunity. A drip to the left, a splash to the right. Individual droplets of piss spreading through the bus stop, a familiar experience to anyone who catches the bus.

Urinary osmosis, the spread from where there are no people to the most built up area within range. But that is not happening. Not just yet. No, the rear is having its contents expunged. The driver, digging deep, like a farmer at 4am after having been awake all night has to deliver a cow in breach. Up to the elbow. Dig it in, pull it out. Lumps of black and brown, different shades and the occasional undigested bright red, suggests something isn’t right. But all that matters right now is getting them out. Quickly and efficiently, but carefully. Like Bobby Brown, with two fingers up the constipated crack-sealed anus of Whitney Houston.

Finally the blockage is cleared, the bus is clear. The front and rear close and it sits there. Just sits there. And we sit there. Still watching the clock, watching the bus, watching each other. The stench of relief has faded with the crowd, as the stench of irritation begins to rise. As if time on the bus is a privilege, something that will never come again and will end too soon. As if being on the bus represents progress. Even if it goes nowhere. But it is change. Merely change. Yet society is driven by change, by the desire for change for we have been told that change is progress and that progress is change when one is not the other and the other is not the one. It is all different, in any direction. Yet we desire it, demand, fetishise it. To the point where the human sacrifice is inevitable. But we have evolved beyond the literal sacrifice of the new born. It is not profitable.

So we sacrifice ourselves, piece by piece, bit by bit, day by day. We give a little more of ourselves and get a little less in return until one day it is realised we are nothing but our possessions and our possessions are nothing at all. And we, oh we, are the Christmas tree, proverbial, covered in baubles and trinkets, standing alone in the corner, dead, wilting, irretrievably so. The wood chipper is calling our name and not a minute too soon. For once we are cut we begin to decay and once we begin to decay we start to lose our worth, for our value is no longer within ourselves, but within the value we have to those who own us. Once we have served our purpose, we are out on the street. In the freezing cold. Or dumped behind a school, or down an isolated walkway, or behind a bus shelter.

A bus shelter that reeks with the excretion of the human race, wafting in the winter air, turning into clouds as a warning to stay away. For here is nothing but poison. And as time ticks away, ticks up by each second, ticks down to the moment the foreplay can begin. The initial work to build up to a cross-country ejaculation, people from the country are cross. Patience is no more a virtue than impatience. Tick. Tick. Tick. The numbers drop away and the tension builds.

The driver is in no hurry, for he is the Don Quan of public transport. He needs not to seduce, for his very existence now draws them in, in herds, too many than he could ever manage. So it was. So it will ever be. Even when he is impotent. They will come to him. When he is incontinent. They will come to him. When his fingers are rotted and stiffened through decade of repetition. They will come to him. They will come. They will always come.

I was glad to have been born in the country, to have experienced first-hand and so not to romanticise nor pine nor long for an innocence or an existence that does not exist, that did never exist. The world so oft romanticised by gutter press and the inbred and the invalid, not invalid as in sick and dying, though they are, as we are, as we should, as we must, but invalid as in valid, not valid, not to be heard to be seen to be taken seriously by anyone, not least of own their own kind, rotting in their own filth and opulent squalor. Inbred indecent hacks promote the myth of good breeding, whilst fucking like dogs or mice or rats, indifferent to who, what, where, when, why, or how. Any orifice, any time, any place, any how. Yet with the foresight to deal with bad genes discreetly through shame and retribution, through money or a kick down the stairs, through a coathanger whilst she sleeps through an opium-induced haze.

Keeping it in the family, a society built on the ideals of private property and rampant inbreeding. My land my daughter. Keep your dick away from both of them you sick fuck or I’ll shoot you in the back and call it self-defence. That is the natural order of things. Those are the rules. Oh how things have changed, how things have changed. Democracy, the great leveller! The Contrived, conniving power politics played through popularism and pornography of the most violent kind. The kind of bondage-heavy, coke-fuelled hate fucking of women and children the dying the poor, the sick bleeding through rectal tears as they cry out for no more as the baying crowd demands satisfaction a democratic money shot of the worst kind. They are cunts. cunts.

We are a cunt and we are getting fucked. But so what? Fuck the country. Fuck the isolationist stagnation of rural life, fuck the people who are born there, live there and die there, whose greatest hope is to just get by. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Fuck you. Fuck me. I would say fuck the world, but that is a cliché, but it also happens to be true. Every day in our homes, our cars, our hopes, dreams and aspirations, we fuck the world in a species-wide gang rape. This is what happens when you get more than one person in the room.

The planet is full to capacity and as her wounds ooze turning to vestigial pockets of filth, diseased ruminations of a planet-wide roasting to put any cranked up politician or footballer to shame. Fuck the country, fuck countries. Fuck all the countries. Nation states developed mere centuries ago, devouring one another. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. The dialectic isn’t progress it is change. Which way is irrelevant. Evolution isn’t progress, it is change. Which way is irrelevant. Fuck the country. It has nothing more to offer. Just the archaic remnants of partially-collapsed infrastructure trying to remain respectable in a world repulsed by their very being. No more relevant or appealing to the outside world than the victim of a face-eating monkey, and twice as absurd.

Fuck the country. Yet I can never leave, will never leave, have no desire to leave, certainly not spiritually, though my body may wander through the world until the final breath leaves the final pile of bodily waste to rot in some godless, unforsaken but no less desperate hole as per tradition or scattered on the wind, a mixture of burnt human flesh and cheap oak. A pile lacking any decorum, soiled through with my own filth in an inevitable bowel movement. Though the final indignity is not to have died stewing in the natural by-product of existence, but to have existed at all. Is there a greater shame? Is there a greater embarrassment than to have lived at all? Look at yourself, or don’t. I beseech you not, for you already know the answer, the fullness of which will grasp you on your deathbed if you are so fortunate, or unfortunate, to experience such a thing. But then it will be too late and lamentations will turn to exclamations which will turn into defecations and finally into death where no answers are ever answered and no questions ever asked.

Ceremonies to mourn the living. No-one envies the dead for no-one believes except  those who are already dead. Dead to the world, dead to life and dead to hope. Dead to hope. Death to hope. The country is dying. Impotence and barren soils borne of the philosophy of keeping it in the family.  Fuck the country. It’s death is long over-due and the fine will be insurmountable, no prayer will keep you from it, no sermon on the Mount will you bear witness too and there will be no god when the day of judgement comes. We will all be doomed, though some will be more doomed than others.

Orwell the visionary, the man who never existed except in the minds of those vacuous enough to desire his appropriation for their cause. Dig up the corpse, wash him down, get a band new suit and put him on display. 50% off totalitarianism. Anti-totalitarianism now half price. The decay of the pseudo-intellectual anchors of society, paraded and parading for their own self-worth, not priceless, very much for sale. Voiceovers and soundbites across the airwaves like plutonium, cancerous lesions bursting on command. First one, then another, balance balance balance. Truth be damned. Honesty be damned. I’ll be damned. Balance at all costs. Balance the story, balance the budget, balance the books. Don’t forget to cook them first.

A generation of independent chefs trying to play a game that was fixed before they were born. The powerful always win. A behemoth cut down is fed upon by others, making them stronger, concentrating power, concentrating strength to resist further culls. Having fed on the remains they discard the superfluous, the human waste of no value, strengthening themselves once again. What chance do we have? Here in the country, where the best that can happen is you die without pain. The country is death. Fuck the country.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by mediocrity. A corrosive, self-serving denouement of a species which should never have existed in the first place. A foul, putrid existence dependent on the excellence of others and connected deeply, irretrievably, inexcusably in the mindless consumption of life itself. Of the foul and the fowl, of the herd and the heard and the swine and wine. And of each other. The devouring of the spirit, of the soul, of the restless desire to be free, to exist, to live.

To create is to be alive, but not of life, for that is not a matter of creation, for that is pure biology. We are no more responsible for the creation of life than we are for the creation of the universe, regardless of what others might believe. We came into existence from who knows where and will go out the same way. But so what? Who cares? Why worry? Why worry when you can deaden the soul, suppress the natural urge to create, or to destroy, to live and to be alive.

The television should have set us free, only it enslaved us, the creativity of others enslaved the best minds, the worst minds, all minds, my mind. Well no longer. No longer will I watch as streams of putrid faeces are pumped into my home like the rivers providing drinking water to villages in the third world by multinational corporations. No longer will I stand idly by and let the world be run by zelots, fuelled with their own greed, their interminable lust and desires for more, more, more. Interminable in both senses, to deaden our senses.

This is not the great Illuminati conspiracy, there are no ceremonies with whippings and group sex with old withered bodies fawned upon by the luscious, the nubile; rituals of the blood sacrifice of the new born, the cloaks and daggers, the fulfilment of sensual desires to attain the highest levels of power, no. Those are just for fun, for the fulfilment of the desire to have everything. Make no mistake, back-door networking (in every sense) is essential to gain entry to the upper echelons of power, unless you don’t mind making some powerful enemies. But they do not hold the power. The ceremonies do not hold the power, for the cold, calculating truth of the matter is that power is wielded by too many to be conspiratorial about. Too many vested interests looking for their piece of the pie to fuck, a complex web of cross-purposes and corporate self-interests intersecting to give the illusion of Illuminati.

The human mind tries to make order out of chaos whilst the human body tries to make chaos out of order. The existence of the body and the mind have transformed our landscape into a desolate wasteland hidden by the aesthetically numbing principles of architecture and advertising. Marketing marking the social unconsciousness, scarring like a blade across the face of a four year old girl, unthinkable in the cold light of day but bitterly inevitable. Is this what we have created? Is this the best that millions of years of evolution could do? A mind that can think but would prefer not to, a civilisation that deserves to crumble under the weight of its own inevitable opulence, built on the backs of the poor and the weak, of those no more or less deserving than we and who in a heartbeat would change places with us and make us the slaves. Even if there was no need.

Slavery does not address a physical need, but an emotional one, the corruption of the spirit. The balance between wanting control and being controlled is irreversibly compromised and that leaves us empty, the void filled with mass-produced bullshit we neither need nor desire, outside of the fact that we get to choose. We get to choose our clothes and our food, our toys and our portable electronics. Given the strength to choose or not to choose, we could choose neither. Instead we delight in the choice whether to punish the peasants of the world by buying their cheap products for which they slave away for 18 hours a day, sometimes more, for mere pennies, sometimes less, or whether we choose to deprive them of the ability to work, through changing our consumption patterns so they lose what little they have.

Power does not corrupt, power sets free the inner ego, the person limited only by opportunity. But so what? We are here and they are there and our power to choose is limited by the web, aforementioned, the natural convergence of powerful interests, albeit wholly unnatural in origin and structure, but so what? They are here and they more powerful than we. Than us. Than you. Than I. Than eye. For we see but do not comprehend, nor do we wish to understand for the ignorance is what keeps the world turning, keeps the cool-aid flowing and which keeps us in a constant state of unrest, ready to consume but never ready to action, to live, to life. This is what has happened to those minds, intelligence warped and deformed by cultural thalidomide, now left hanging, retarded, unrecognisable as anything truly awake, truly conscious, truly alive.

I stand amongst them knowing no cure, no treatment, no defence against infection, but I am already infected. Does that mean I cannot live? Am I forever cursed to the valuum of the masses, to the drugs and culture and anarchy spewed forth by the counter-culture, a slave mentality in the Nietzschean sense of the term, whose attempts to break free were co-opted, cleaned, redesigned and sanitised for the mass market before being sold back to those who wished to condemn society whilst wallowing in the opulence it provides, in the luxuries that can only be forged with the blood of the innocent?

The bleakness of the existence is not to be alive, but to see the horrors and simply not care. I do not care. But this is not the world in which I wish to exist. Can I exist elsewhere? Truth is not known, but lived. For better or worse, I want Truth.

Hey there, folks!

If you are reading this then you have either clicked through randomly, by accident, or through my main blog Sedated Tabloid Reader.

Either way, I would like to welcome my little project which I have decided to name The Dark Chasm of Alternative Learning. This is basically my attempt to write a novel in a month.

Here I will be pasting what will essentially be the first draft of each chapter pretty much as soon as they are on the page.

Please be aware that unlike my other blog, this site site will contain material that is Not Safe For Work and that is of a transgressive nature (i.e. those with sensitive dispositions might wish to look away).

The reason for this new blog is to keep the two worlds separate, whilst (hopefully) creatiing an interactive atmosphere for feedback and constructive criticism.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this so hopefully we can all go on a journey together and end up richer for it!