Carry me down into the waters of... Carry me down into the water of love. The two of us are made of angels' dust. I've been around, but not around enough...
Salutations, glow-worms. I am making an early morning sojourn back to the page to make contact with you all. I am creeping past dozing guards to storm your castles. I am wearing night-vision goggles to see every detail in crystal-clear, green light. I'm on patrol. I can spy the pupils of your eyes from a distance. I can hear your heart beat.
These last couple of days have been spent mainly in the company of my brother and our new flat mate. Hanging out, cracking jokes, reading preposterous "story lines" penned by prolific bullshit artists with less sense, judgement and talent for words than your average household sponge. Hell, at least a sponge, when squeezed, doesn't emit pure faeces. If slander weren't punishable in court I would name this corn-holing meat-sucker. In the circumstances, it seems he's doing enough off his own bat to spread word of his mental rottings. I don't often like myself, but this guy makes me feel a little bit more positive. At least I'm not him.
I haven't had time to take stock of how I'm feeling lately. Not in any position to update you all right now, as it is almost half past two in the morning and I have only slept a handful of hours in the last four days. Struggling to string together many things: thoughts, feelings, sentences. The sleep-drought continues unabated, and I dry up a little more as a result. Let's pray for rain.
Time to blow this pop-stand. Make like a baby and get the hell out of this hole.
Who is your favourite obscure sportsman or woman?
P.S. Collins Injera just scored a hat-trick in the opening match of the 2009 World Cup Sevens tournament. Legend.
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