some six hundred miles from the source

'Throughout döman history, as he has faced the frightening, terrorizing fact that he doesn't know who he is and where he is headed in this ocean of chaos, it has been life's repetitive sequences that tried to comfort him, give him a sense of stability, breaking up apparent chaos into 180 m high pathways with way too fragile railings to cling on to, thus forming in his mind this pale, distant view of reality. To think for himself he must get rid of his viewing port and move his bloodshot eyes as close as they allow him to see each pore on the skin of the world he seldom let himself dive into.'

What a learyan intro, ay? Don't read too much into it, I woke up with a rancid cough attack and in between coughs and spits and mumbles - lo, grumpiness has cast a shadow upon my day. Ish happens, some might say, but I rather dislike mood taking over my senses. It changes everything. It turns your proud, recently corrected strut into a fast paced nervous jig, it pulls your bewildered eyebrows into an irascible cloud. It even makes your responses less mind-driven and more visceral, which would be ok up to a point, I guess, but not when you are actually required to think before you speak.
Smoldering. Sting is coming to Romania and I don't even know if I want to go see the dude.
Grump rant brought to a halt by myself reminding myself how annoying people can get when they keep on and on complaining about their tiny little existence. I'm still glad to be alive, very much so.


'What he witnessed from the edge of the escarpment was incomprehensible and yet it made perfect sense. A euphoric wave rushed through his mind, affecting every thought and emotion he had ever experienced. A thousand realisations, so complex
they tore at the fabric of consciousness itself. It was a reality that could not possibly exist. The fight for his mind had begun.'




I love music, yo.