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Wizards
know their times:
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,
The time of night when Troy was set on fire;
The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl,
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves,
That time best fits the work we have in hand.
Henry IV Part II
I think back over the days, and try to recreate them in my mind. I do this because there is nothing else to do. If I fail it was to be expected.
And so it is I see myself holding a brown and decaying mushroom in the field of long wet grass, on a cold autumn day shot through with wan light from the deep winter sun. I am at the back of my old university campus. The field has fenced-off 'experimental areas'. In the eighties there were ponies here, or horses. I had been walking slowly, intently, adjusting my field of vision and going through alibis in my head. At one point I come across a ring of logs rigged for seats around a burned-out fire - and a token beer can nearby. It brought me relief.
I had already found the solitary mushroom. A dead thing it was.
On the train over there, I had silenced any notion of conjuration. I would neither reach out or back. At the same time I would not close myself down. This is a place, I told myself, just another place. There would be no past, no memories: There will be no anger, no thought of what could be. Moreover; there would be no mushrooms. I had not seen any in years, but then, I hadn't been looking. Not seriously. I couldn't remember when the season occurred. I had no intention of finding out. I was playing a wild card, ready for failure. I was on a mission and its success was irrelevant.
So here's me holding this big old dark brown shroom, the only one in the field - or anywhere - and it was dead and partially eaten. I could smell it before I saw it. It was obscene, in a way, how the neat linear gash had been eaten from the cap. You could see right through. When I pulled it up I tried to snap the stalk, but I ripped up the rhizome, as I've done many times, and I held it by the white root and smiled, and blinked slowly. Therefore, it was, that I came here to clean my boots of old dried mud (by walking through the long wet grass); and to take the hill for the sake of the exercise. I had my camera with me too, for opportunities.
I did not fear them. The people.
I stopped at the Monkey's Elbow on the way down the hill. I was thirsty, needed a loo, and felt rough. It was still morning and breakfast was being served in the pub. There were a few people in there, washed up on the morning's wave, looking pale in the light, talking quietly. Hogs Back Tea was £2.80 - another sign from God. I sat looking over the busy road, smoked. The sun came out brightly and shone on my face.
...
I feel I may be falling. The light is getting darker. My thoughts are getting crazier. I can't figure out even the basics. For example; How can a liver be made up of 99.999999999999% empty space? Or maybe all empty space. How the Hell can it still be a liver?! Can somebody please explain the topography of the universe? And could you please explain an idea? That's a feature of human space, right?
Ahhhh fuck, look at this prick...
But no, I come round with every word. To carve out the lines is to live, to launch yourself into space. To the writer the greatest writer is one's own self. To live here is to live in heaven, but the catch must be good. One must have something...one must have belief...
Fall. Fall again. Falling in my arms. Fall into history. Fall directly onto a precipice and feel the next fall. You have but a moment. Do you shout for Jehova, curse your fate or search for the final word? Or do you jump straight away? God is now here. God is nowhere. You are Grock. What do you make of that? Goodbye.
At the first level you rip the body open and see the constituent parts - you see the lungs, the liver, the kidneys, the brain etc... You realise in some way that you are dealing with a machine - even though machines have not been invented yet. Here is the heart, it makes tough eating: here are the guts, they go down to the brown hole. Everything has a point. It must mean something.
In my room, twelve candles burn. Outside, I can hear another chopper. They come frequently now, looking for perpetrators, cannabis factories, eccentrics, etc...
Do not give in, I tell myself, but the present is peeling apart like DNA and replicating everywhere in a population explosion. The closer I get to death, the more alive I feel. But I cannot pin it down - it's hopeless. Look: Say I am a witch, and I live in a tall place. It's always night, and the fires burn forever. I'm here for 40 trillion years, mostly dreaming. Let's say that then.
tracksSay then, that I am reaching out like a tyro - wired, half-blind and self-conscious. I've done everything now. I've examined every angle I can calibrate and revealed every feeling known to me, both truly and falsely. For the sake of...what? Your love? Your admiration? Your attention? Or did I give everything freely...unknowing...
It seems to me that I've made false starts, shown bad judgement, misread character and assumed a knowledge I did not have. And so I sit here beginning another journey onto the page with a heavy heart and a bleak view. I can write a sentence, but I am no strategist; I'll land every letter at a Gallipoli to have them blasted back into the sea.
But Christ, Patterson, I was up at dawn with a handful of pills and in the office at 7.10am. By eight I had copy-edited six pages and published them. At lunchtime I walked like a bastard, for the sake of walking, and went shopping after dinner. Right now I want to rip my flesh off, and die like a man, so to speak.
If I think, I can almost believe that the last game, the game itself, is complete. The numbers are counted and the deck has resolved itself into its final constituents. This hand, if you like, might have the pattern of a Mesolithic myth told for 10,000 years. Except now the speaker is terribly alone, haunted by his own ghost. He sits in a sealed bubble in a hive, surrounded by billions but unseen and unheard. He tries to believe he is becoming a god, as though his life itself had become a god - not him as a person. He grasps onto the notion that his life, its events and their sequence, has a character and a will - a consciousness, distinct from his own. Could his life not be a god then? Is not every life a sentence the story of Creation? Then what of him?
Let us say...what I mean is...let us say we hold the cards. And that these cards represent life's elements. They run in a particular order; for the sake of symmetry, for the sake of completeness. You glance at the first card and the beginning falls into place like magic. Suddenly you see yourself on a road in a morning mist by a modest Georgian archway. Your world is clean and genteel, and you see at once you are the wise fool. You find that when the suffering of the world threatens to sully your mind, you can lift yourself above it like one of Dali's long-legged elephants - right into the clouds.
It's here in the clouds, here in the mist by the Georgian archway, that you regard a woman in a white dress striking an elegant pose by a balustrade. Your chariot is a BMW; the bill at the country hotel is a joke; you lift the Hasselblad and the power of the production slates your hunger like rare wine and gourmet food. It's a life to perfection, in that moment.
But you realise, at that perfect moment, that you have paid for this in some way. You too have suffered; and your sufferings stand beside you like a troop of crack guards. Thus it was, that your pain had become your lover and companion; a rare fair beauty in a white dress, and part of you.
Then there is the castle, which is very high up. When you see it the strange thought occurs to you; the thought that you have never visualised a primitive human break into a smile which had a warmth of humility, understanding and love. It seems incredible to you; because you have seen this smile yourself in many times, and felt it play on your own face, and now you realise that you have never imagined it on the lips of one of the old ancestors. Or a Roman for that matter. Or anyone recorded in history.
How did you get to this point, you think, where nearly everyone who ever lived got partially wiped out of your consciousness?
In any case, the castle is very high and has white walls, and in the courtyard herbs grow in boxes.
...
These are games old men in towers play, who are killed by their own comforts.
I stand up straight at the window and look into the night. There are ripples of explosions in the distance. I stand up straight like I am at attention and for a moment I think of you, Patterson, standing in the yard between unloading and the old bloke telling you to take your hands out of your pockets.
There's a dead era for you. More gone because if they had flattened Royal Holloway in 95, if they had flattened the whole hill and built a nuclear power station on it, it could not have been further from what it became. When I go back now I feel like a ghost looking at his own corpse. There is nothing to be done.
But I can picture that smile on my face, and just on yours, and much more besides.
And so I play, curiously omitting vowels like Thompson's spirit was fucking with me - for months now. I think of Henry every day, many times. Nothing specific, but he is always by my side. Always, it seems.
Onwards to the end, stirring the deck widdershins. Rising music from the speakers, a siren in the distance. I thought the big display had shot its wad, but it's only 7.18. I'm bolted up, heavily armed. The window is open, letting out the warmth, and any smell. A line goes out to Glastonbury, but it is gone, like a forgotten dream you might remember one day. At Shambala there was a sign on the hill: WE WANTED TO BE THE SKY. At the time I was moved. Now nothing. I pick up one half of the Olanzapine I cut in two this morning, take a swig of coke and go to swallow it and suddenly stop. I put it back down on the bedside cabinet, think about the summer, think about redemption, think about him, think about you.
It's you I am thinking about now, that mystery, that sexless, bodiless form which haunts my pain and every word on this page.
Nothing, I sense nothing. You win the game, what next?
Leaving for Shambala in a little while. There are some Glastonbury photos on the other site.
Just saw Jimmy coming out of Waitrose. Looked as right as rain. Said he was going down the pub.
I'm going to get drunk.
The
moving finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
At the beginning of the week my body went into free fall. Things were bad anyway,
but now I imagined I could see death close by. I had this vision in my head
that he had walked slowly through the summer crowds: And somehow this memory
of his transit erased the colour of the people's faces like a wet sponge over
a watercolour. Soon, I figured, I will be washed away. And we will all go this
way, and everything. In any case, Glastonbury was obliterated. I was at a loss
to understand why.
I wasn't sure if I could get through dinner that night straight, or just alive, so I drank a bottle of wine. I slept heavily afterwards and when I woke up in the night I felt ominously adrift. The physical signs were there. They seemed overwhelming. But I found there was no discomfort, and no great fear. I wanted to give way, especially if it could be like this. I couldn't see the point in going on.
I turned on the TV. In the news, everyone had failed. Even the success stories were failures - when you examined them. Every thread seemed to be conveyed in the oblique language of psychosis; the genre of televised news. It's a fictive world of sibylline drama, a chorus of accelerated hoo-ha in make-up and haute couture - with a beginning, middle and end. They made it look like Rome was falling. History seemed irrepairable. It meant nothing to me. It only proved how insane they were.
There were flashes of where my own past rushed up to meet me. I'm the man you became, I thought morbidly, and I'm sitting here silent now - no chatter. I am what you were and what fortune made of you. This might be it; Wrecked to the guts in a fucking room, owing more than I'm worth, a fake life and a dead-end job set to evaporate. Make the most of it. I was angry and bitter. I was railing, fuming and exhausted.
And I began typing on this white screen, as you might score a message into a dungeon wall.
Birdsong now, over the speakers.
Opening TextPad seems like a big deal. It's like leaving the smoke for the hills with a jack knife and plus fours.
I can feel the change in temperature and pressure. If I could smell I might smell fresh pollen now, as the air rushes in, bringing in the weather. Earlier the wind blew against the tide and I saw the river disturbed as I have not witnessed for years. These gusts of wind are like caresses to me, and the meaning they carry with them is a promise of an end to the order of the days. These breezes too are like children playing - and that again gives me hope. I want the darkness to come, and the thunder of the rain to drown out the noise of the world...and to lie on my bed, adrift and alone...
Toward the end of the trial, it rained almost constantly. Logistics got difficult, and my suite overlooking the Ocean Hotel was lashed by wild squalls every night. It was like sleeping in a boathouse at the end of some pier in Nova Scotia. Big waves on the beach, strange winds banging the doors around like hurricane shutters, plastic garbage cans blowing across the parking lot at thirty miles an hour, darkness in chaos, sharks in the water, no room service tonight.
It was a fine place to sleep, wild storms on the edge of the sea - warm blankets, good whiskey, color TV, roast beef hash and poached eggs in the morning....Fat City, a hard place to wake up at six o'clock in the morning and drive across the long, wet bridge to the courthouse in West Palm.
I saw Jimmy a couple of weeks ago in the local supermarket. He looked fucked. He said that the doctors had told him to stop drinking and smoking, 'in other words - stop living!'.
He looked uniquely destroyed - deathbed material really; waxen, pale, ragged, lifeless...barely able to walk even with the stick he had. He told me I looked well (I have lost about twenty pounds) and quipped 'at least one of us does!' Obviously, I didn't tell him I felt as sick as a pike.
I guess even a small bottle might finish him off, but I hope and suspect that he'll make a good job of it. In his heart he wants nothing to do with the high priests at the hospital, he just needs the pills they dole out to cope with his pain. Hard to break free of those bastards though, and their crazy religion, especially when they start spouting their sadistic bullshit and accusations in those deadpan tones. In truth he died last year, when they called from the hospice to tell him Claudette had gone. From then on his days became a rolling procession around the shittiest bars in town, with the occasional detours to the bookies, the newsagents and the nearest high-stakes poker game. Why not? He had some money and his legs worked. He's got nothing now. His nose is executed and his fire is out. You still alive Jimmy? You fooled me, and down the pub? Or are you lying down now, listening to the rain on the window, the cars running through the wet road outside? Is your daughter there? Are you a brave boy? I pray for you Jimmy, I pray to George Jesus and his heavenly crew, to Thor and his holy hammer - and to the sacred snake of the Dogon people for that matter, I pray that you leave us as you would like, as you lived, and not be put in one of their meat factories, with babbling old gimps grabbing at you and cold-eyed itinerant nurses chattering in Filipino over your bed and shrieking with moronic laughter in the dead of night.
When the fall is all there is it matters.
Sorry, but it's a tough nut, and I feel so close to it myself that it's hard to escape. I've been gripped with anger for months. Everything I have seen has been through this cloud of fury, to the point where old places, old times, have ceased to exist. I feel as though I have just been born, with no history to speak of. Everywhere - my home town, my job, Holloway, Glastonbury, the locals, my friends - everything has been taken from me. It's as though an axe fell on the thread of my life and I saw the past whiplash away. What remains of all these things is at best an abstraction - corrupted.
The rain has stopped and I can hear birdsong. I shall put some clothes on, take to the town and think of fire. In a some quiet place.
...
Back now, still dying. But like the crow, I pass.
Morning will come, and the recommencement of the countdown to the necessary action - the need to work. All life is in suspension, with every moment squeezed to a mild agony by the preceding and following toil. The necessary preparedness, the apparent futility of your actions, the apparent callousness and inhumanity with which labour and wealth is distributed, the division between the self and what you do, between what you are and what you mean. To escape this world of work you work harder until it kills you. Then it's time for the meat locker and the final processing and abuse. You die, in a sense, with respect to facility. You die in a way which suits....it.
What then?
Jimmy made a song of life. It was a song of love and good cheer. While I sat at my screen in one big squint, pretending to work; to be doing something valuable, Jimmy rolled from bar to bar, from drinker to drinker, bottle to bottle, barrel to barrel. With his big brandy and Guinness chaser, he stood and watched, stood and listened, stood and talked. He always spoke with dignity and wisdom and humour, and nearly every tooth had gone and a cancer had been cut out of his throat.
...
I find myself sitting outside Ivan's place, as I did at the beginning of the week. The sun is not shining now. The sky seems friendly though: washed out pastel greys and somehow a suggestion of blue. This idea of blue confuses me. When I look hard I cannot see any blue and I wonder whether my eyes are playing tricks on me. A young man walks out of the cafe and stands briefly in my line of sight. I cannot see him clearly and I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. I'm nursing a fresh orange juice and coffee. I feel good at this moment. Not like I am going to die.
By the Three Kings a little boy, no more than three or four, reaches up and presses the button for the crossing. (It's fixed quite low - maybe for wheelchair users.) His mother smiles and the traffic stops almost immediately. He runs across with joy, shouting. I smile and my lips pucker with a twitch. They go past me to their car with the boy making police siren sounds.
I'm taking notes blue streak, like it's my last day on earth. Onwards, I think, onwards, though my heart flutters and my ass tenses. People are walking by, running by, riding by, driving by. Do they see me? What are they thinking? Do they have an illusion of transparency? Who do I describe? There are so many. Lots of big cars on the road too. Predominance of silver. Buses going past with sets of tinted human cameos. I let my eyes wander over the buildings...to the offices over Blockbuster...
A few days ago I had sat at the same table, with the same drinks, also making notes. I had studied the buildings on the other side of the road carefully. At first I looked at them like you would look at a mandala - in a trance. Then I had the thought to deconstruct them, and record as much detail as necessary. In particular I had described the number and arrangement of the windows of the offices over the shops. I counted them carefully, and recorded not only aspects of the individual frames but also the rectilinear and quadratical groupings and symmetries they formed.
Now I noticed....that I had been wrong. Somehow I had missed a whole vertical column of windows on the main block, the very one I had observed most closely. I also noticed that the sign on the Jun Ming next door, which had shone that day like engine-cut burnished gold, was in fact cheap beige plastic, with drip stains and oddly serrated edges.
The Crow sat beside me on the table. People still coming and going. The clouds griddle the deep channel of the distant road. I feel I must make plans for the day, but I have no idea what to do. The thought of doing something, other than going back home and lying down, frightens me.
The sun brightens on the scene. I take everything in. A man pulls up and takes the table next to me. They bring him tea and he leaves to go to the bank. In that time he gets a parking ticket, argues with the warden, and returns. I feel uncomfortable. Friends walk by and stop to chat. Ten other things happen and twenty more occur to me. I shop at the farmer's market and the supermarket. I meet someone else. The procession unfolds with a comedy death chant in my head. Every aspect seems like a misunderstanding, a chance half taken. I feel helpless. It seems pointless. I feel like a dead man walking. Everywhere I wonder what the people would do if I went down. My plans are desperate. My notes are trite and vacuous. Go home, cook, eat, somehow finish this wail like a reflux croak that makes you shit your pants and shoots a look of angry shock on the nearest bystander. It's fucked, I'm going down. With bags I reach the door of the block and stop still. I stop. I do not breathe, my heart does not beat. I stand straight, calm, and I turn to look back down the driveway, at the world, in a moment of strength and defiance. Motherfuckers.
I felt like I was compressed between two moments, with the time best left distracted and undone. But at once, like a moron, I was overwhelmed with the need to be here - with the need to talk. I wanted to sing, even if it was in a falsetto wail like a mad dog - or an animated prick with fake teeth. It's winter, I tell myself, and by the spring I will be dead. I'll die in my bed from a massive heart attack. Through yonder misted window, you see the night of distilled black ice and the white fleece wrapped around the earth. Here is the fire, the last book, the cordial, etc, while we wait for the end.
Shot through with anticipation of the last season, I tell myself on impulse and irrationally that I will make the summer winter. False, false. My legs are broken and I cannot fly. And lo, I need to meet dangerous people in the night and make deals. I need my knees to work. One final physical miracle. Then I need that transition time in the car with Big Keith on the way down to the valley. I need to see the fields rolling by, and feel the weight lift from me - and experience the sky.
Yah, I've gone all poetical, looking for the big thing.
To name it is to kill it.
To name it is to claim it.
To name it is to own it.
To name it is to know it.
The
error of radical finalism, as also that of radical mechanism, is to extend too
far the application of certain concepts that are natural to our intellect. Originally,
we think only in order to act. Our intellect has been cast in the mould of action.
Speculation is a luxury, while action is a necessity. Now, in order to act,
we begin by proposing an end; we make a plan, then we go into the detail of
the mechanism which will bring it to pass. This latter operation is possible
only if we know what we can reckon on. We must therefore have managed to extract
resemblances from nature, which enable us to anticipate the future.
Of late, passing through unglued cannabinated hours, I've been thinking about life, death and the universe. I've been reading Creative Evolution by Henri Bergson, watching The Ascent of Man by Bronowski, The World at War and Schama's History of Britain. I've been listening to Terence McKenna, Ralph Abraham and Rupert Sheldrake. Last night I watched Brian Cox's Wonders of the Universe and read about the Führerbunker. Hitler was no hero to his valet, Bronowski spoke of tolerance, McKenna of the unspeakable, I find myself talking like Schama and Cox made no sense whatsoever.
It doesn't bode well, does it? And with my legs stretched out like this on the bed I find I am crushing my nuts, although there is not a lot in them, and they haven't got much practical use - other than my own pleasurable diversion, that is.
Yah, it's a total loss situation. First off; I am astounded to find myself here - I mean 'on this planet'; in the universe. Again, it makes no sense. If I cannot understand life, how can I understand death? It goes without saying that nothing has happened. Every evening I seem to face a failure and try to forget the lost cause which was the day. I feel on the edge of losing my mind. I'm thinking it's a bughouse anyway. It's like we were born into the world, opened our eyes and instantly went whacko. This...appears to be the truth. We lost it a long time ago. And we lose it every day.
Ray calls. He says he's got 40 kilos of cheese and he wants to give it to me. He lives in a house just outside Bristol full of thick Pikey sluts covered in tats who are working his libido and his magic banana. It's nine inches long and cut and pretty wide. He's got balls like kiwifruits and the bitches say he has special pipe work. Ray scares the shit out of me. I know he has a room full of guns from '68 - M16s, Sterlings, PPKs, Hi-Powers - and enough gear of twelve types for the next 47 years. There is too much gear, in fact. They are throwing it on the fires. The sluts are crazy fanatics, of course, and he's getting a bounce in every room from midday to 4am. He's strong, incredibly strong. They are feeding him placenta and three dried grammes a day, with a lot of talk about revolution, Gimbutas and 2012, but he is beating them down with the electric banana. There is no network or digital or altars of shit to worship at from every corner. The house is big with many rooms and no-one ever goes there. He lives in a dark place full of flesh outside the jurisdiction of cosmic law.
There are pauses, like low tides, which goose me. I try to move forward into what this is. I try to see into the white void and see space and texture, but I cannot get wasted enough. No: It's too dangerous at the moment. I'm held to gigs, and they will fuck me if I lose it. I doubt myself. I sense hidden depth, and it scares me. I hear sounds. I meditate. I skirt around the conception like it's a black hole which will crush me. Christ, no, there is no way I could take on Finnegens Wake now. Capricorn is still half through, and half covered in red lines - for months. Some weeks ago I threw a partially read copy of Genesis in my day sack. I've been walking around with it since. Needless to say that I have been damaged by the thought that anyone could take it seriously. I had to block that one out. It did not compute.
Things I have seen. What has been said. A series of realisations. Mabon.
White. Music. Plays.
Time passes, and at once will end, with no apotheosis in sight and no surrender to love. For what it's worth, I feel it ending, and I cannot figure out how the dead live with us, because it seems that they should. I will join them. To wit; That's it; the time in between now and the bitter end. Action doesn't count. It doesn't even survive the day. There is only this: Word after word, letter after letter. That is all my measure. There seems no escape.
Let this be the last place, I tell myself, that I build. Can you conceive...such a thing? That's right Charlie, they are there - all your ghosts. Your bodies and wills and bundles of half-baked illusions are around us right now. But we cannot see them, and we cannot hear them, and it is like they are gone forever, with just me and these keys, with just me and you, and these words forming silently in my head, from where, I cannot say, and I know not what this is, only that I feel it. The fire burns near the entrance and the sticks lie on the ground beside us. We picked the bones clean and there is not much to do...
I feel the sea suddenly and looking out...I see into infinity. What a spectacle that would be, if we had grown and never witnessed such a thing.
God knows, it seems in the nature of a blessing, a miracle, that I can sit here and conjure these words. I hold my cold hands together steeple-like over my mouth and nose; as in the form of prayer. My breath warms my fingers and the machine throws up the muted tones of pipes and bells. I slip into a nightmare of borders and probing doctors. I read about Doggerland, the Mesolithic and the Paleolithic...the Bonobo and the Chimpanzee. I read about the Manson Family, thermobaric weapons, cro-magnon man, the Parmigianino and the first council of Nicaea. I remark on the whiteness, feel the need for colour, feel a lust and fear for the light, feel the hand of desire and the want of someone so crazy she will shatter the commandments and bring the world down around me. Where to go. Egham High Street seems as far away as Londinium, closer probably in emotion to the forests which sprung out of the last glacial period. Bushy Park is unnavigable alone. Glastonbury the annual endurance test - nothing more than a wargame. The census form sits on the desk. Do I say I am Pagan or Unitarian Universalist? Pagan seems better. How about Cyberdelic Shamanism? We are all anti-nazis in this house.
In the act of doing you are released.
I mix the deck 25 times widdershins. Five times five, you note. And deal...And I win big, ride it for more, just a bit more, and lose everything - thank God.
Odd word that; God. Very odd.
Where are you now, Christopher Light? I am here. I have a body, I can move my hands. I work in an office. There are people there. I can feel them. I pause, and wait. I can feel my legs and I can feel a fear. The light flickers and I am reminded of thoughts of the idea that everything here is broken. It flickers again. I am recording. And again. I feel fear. It bloats my stomach. I must find silence now. I must have peace. Stability. Thinking of words. Thinking of some council woman I think of the gardens I was there earlier and saw a man standing on the bridge where I saw the lily and thought of the one who died and perhaps took her own life.
Such is the matter at hand. Where are you? What are you thinking? Maybe I could conjure up a Ben Bradlee, a William Holden. Do a piece, as it were; Do a number on my life. Christ, my life. My. Life. I have a life. I thought I had fuck all, and now suddenly I have a life. A whole life - which is mine. I own it. I own the freehold.
Pulling back, I wonder what, wonder what...
The candles burn, the light seems stable. I am not poor. There are people on the streets now. But, I tell myself, they were building shelters 400,000 years before physics. Losing it. All this fucking noise is driving me crazy. For men like me...
Ahhh...I slip off into a fantastic argument based on you and me Charlie, going off into the tundra alone and a hunting band crosses our path. Do they rape you and kill us both? Sometimes they would. I've seen enough horrors on these screens to understand that. There never was an era of peace. There have always been those who carried the sickness. We fight and we kill. We beat and intimidate, we lie and hate. In places, yes, there were times, but not one who grew made it to the end without being tainted by the poison of evil, willingly or not. We have a choice, you see? This thing is within our grasp. This thing, in fact, is it. It's the humdinger. It's the whole fucking deal.
A thermobaric weapon, which includes the type known as a "fuel-air bomb", is an explosive weapon that produces a blast wave of a significantly longer duration than those produced by condensed explosives. This is useful in military applications where its longer duration increases the numbers of casualties and causes more damage to structures.
Now there is silence. Now, I will forget and play...for the last time...
I must forget everything, to a place where a fire burns in the night.
There is a long way to go...
Via Space Ghetto
I am still alive, plotting my crime. There must be a way...
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