(April 30/06)
I have awakened from troubled dreams, I have yet to awaken, I will never awake. These ferments that neuropathology has gleaned from the cuckold of my hypothalamus are a joke, trickery and shamanism. I have no pep me ups or leavening yeast, all my thoughts are flat bread, pumpernickel, dark rye, untransubstantiated Benison loaf. I am twice removed from the once removed, indifferent to my own indifference, disinterested from my own disinterest, stale bread, unseasoned barm. I have thoughtless thoughts, frivolous dispatches lacking in mental content, a cuckoldry of intention and orderliness. If I were a Joycean character I would be Paddy Dignam, dead and rotting in some peat bog limed over to prevent an offal stench that no lemony scented wash up could ever possibly put right. Fucking grave worms and taproots fiddle flummoxing with my toe ends. Fucking horrid indeed.
