So I Was Smacked Up On The

To Attempt To Write Seriously Is Always, I Feel, To Fail - The Disjunction Between My Beautifully Sonorous, Accurate And Painfully Affecting Mental Content, And The Leaden, Halting Sentences On The Page Always Seems A Dreadful Falling Short.

Schadenfreude Is So Nutritious.

Life, It Is True, Can Be Grasped In All Its Confused Futility Merely By Opening One's Eyes And Sitting Passively, A Spectator On The Stands Of History - But To Understand The Social Processes And Conflicts, The Interplay Between Individual And Group, Even The Physicality Of Human Experience, We Have Need Of Small-scale Models.

Like All Right-listening Folk, I Am An Implacable Enemy Of All Muzak.

The Whole Aesthetics Of Computers Very Much Feeds Into My Ocd. They Fill My Head With Obsessionalities And My Actions Become Very Repetitive. It Seems Quite Inimical To The Dreamy State Out Of Which Fiction Comes Which Seems So Much Less Causally Repetitive Than The Way One Works On Computers.