Death, The Real Simile For Disease -

I'm English Enough To Feel Something Of A Gut-reaction To Modernism, To Continental Philosophising And Anything That Smacks Of A Refusal To Pay Attention To The Forensics: The Empirical Facts On The Ground.

So Heedless Have We Become Of Our Own Image That Second-hand Mobile Phones Now Invariably Come With A Sim Card Chock-full Of Discarded Intimacies.

We've Clearly Entered A Period In Which The Analog Of Text Is No Longer Important Or Relevant. All Text Will Be Electronic. I Accept That Fact. My House Has Thousands Of Books In It, And I've Started To Look At Them Completely Differently. They Now Seem To Me To Be Like Antiquarian Objects. Their Use Value Has Become Negligible To Me Because I'm Perfectly Happy To Read On An E-reader.

I'm An Anarchist. I'm Implacably Opposed To Heirarchical Systems Of Power And Control. I Also Mistrust Crowds, As They Often Operate According To Their Lowest Common Denominator. In Terms Of Evolutionary Psychology, The Crowd Is Very Close To A Herd Of Stampeding Wildebeest.

Lust Was A Positive High-tension Cable, Plugged Into My Core, Activating A Near-epileptic Seizure Of Conviction That This Was The One Thing I Had To Do In Life.