Here, I shall set out a few goals for the coming weeks. I shall accomplish but few of them, if any at all, but I certainly have a grand time making *plans* for the imminent *future*. Before I do so, I shall procrastinate one moment by telling my gentle and teary reader that I am listening to a beautiful album called *The Room* by **Harold Budd**. I recommend it to all. Actually, I began it last night as I was winding down from self imposed lessons in the semi-new [GraphQL](http://graphql.org/learn/), which...
Chirstian is in the toilet. He belongs there, as do we all. I'm sure he . chris does not care for anything. He is the sociapath.the people who don''t have a clue are christian's point of view. i shall care for them until they are corpses. They rot in the fields while we wander in the wastes. That is very chliced. Chris sits before me as a atomaton of these days. We will die together. ...
Continued from a few days ago. > Capitalism disgusts me. I can claim steady ownership if this phrase, for it suits me, and marks me. Other humans, usually ones in my *circle* chastise me for it. I don't mind. It's difficult to live on an axis when most of the world only thinks in extremes. Clarification: Absolute capitalism disgusts me. The need to monetise practically every pursuit in life disgusts me. Perhaps *disgusts* is a hash word, as plenty of my friends are wont to this failing. It may be easier o...
The black blocks of residential flats seemed to glare down at me as I passed on the train. If they did glare instead of it being only my imagination, it was in apathy. The consumers of such places are shielded from one another by black walls. The black absorbs all sound and even feeling. It mutes the percussion of emotions. The foetus beats in its sister's makeshift womb. He's tried to grow nails before, but just now has succeeded simply by force of will. He doesn't wish to die. The *sister*, once a foetu...
A conversation with the Christián Newman (see below) earlier got me thinking about the connection between *inner dialog* and a sort of self-attribution. When I, or anyone else, introduces a topic, Christián often directs the course of conversation towards facets of the topic he has included in one of his creative endeavours. My friend almost perpetually has a stream of said *inner dialog* flowing beneath any personal interaction. Thus, attaching a topic to that dialog is not really surprising. From an outs...
Continued from yesterday, my precious horde. > Very strong English (especially American) accents annoy me. It's easier to bear the fools these days, actually. Another product of living with women for the majority of the last eleven years is a swelling in my personality's penumbra called *patience*. I have always criticised others for not looking beyond the tone and delivery of speech to the actual words themselves. I've been a hypocrite! Well, at least some of the time - that is, when I don't catch myself...
Christián would be proud of me this *morning* as I have resisted the urge to stumble to the toilet and relieve my bowels. Great effort is required to achieve this feat. My mind battles the urges of my body. I am cleansed in my reverence for the spiritual. I have rounded the final bend of the river and can now clearly see the sea stretching blue against the horizon. From the peak, the remainder of my days are a pleasant, even enthralling downhill rush. When I am torn apart in the delta, in my transcendence, ...
On 25 December, 2005, I was inspired by a woman named *Jana* that I only met once at [Na Květnici](https://www.google.es/maps/place/Restaurant+Na+Kv%C4%9Btnici/@50.061242,14.4391018,15z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x0:0x655e184a6d8a3b29!8m2!3d50.061242!4d14.4391018) during December of the previous year, methinks, or even of the same year. Since I have begun to see through the *flimsy* partitions between universes, my estimation of time has drifted from its exacting nature into a sort of muddled horse-shoe toss. #### W...
I refuse to believe that this particular entry is for purposes of testing the new *layout* of *Martenblog*. I worked on rebuilding it system from scratch during the whole of the flimsy weekend. Why was the weekend flimsy, you ask? Well, my pugnacious starbeam, I felt light, as if I were drifting from one state of consciousness to another. I most likely was. And probably still am. I began my reconstruction with a new framework dubbed [Alkali](https://github.com/kriszyp/alkali). The result was a wasted five...
I began reading *The Ghosts of Evolution* by Connie Barlow a few days ago. The digital tome is a enumeration of fruits with attached stories concerning their evolution alongside mammals utilised to distribute their seeds. These mammals were but *propagation machines* and nothing more. I agree with this use of mammals, in general. Anyhow, Miss Connie's focus is on a number of fruits that still exist whilst their means of propagation do not. A prime example is the avocado, whose flesh tastily enfolds a seed ...
> A fork in the proverbial road and Shambal chooses the way more recently paved and travelled since he's hoping to meet more chicks. It's a truth that one cannot ignore that Shambal was once a prolific womaniser. One of the many epitaphs crudely carved into his immense sarcophagus reads *Although his flesh wilts, his stillborn progeny plough other pastures*. As an aside, the mystery of the tomb persists through the ages and leaks across countless quantum universes. You see, dastardly reader, Shambal was th...
