I deny ritual outright. I see positive and negative consequences. Firstly, most ritual denies spontaneity. The compulsion even to have that morning cup of coffee before anything else after dragging oneself out of a comfy bed deletes anything residual from dreams. They fade quickly. I need again create a dream diary. In the past, it has spawned stories and poems - even sometimes music. I've arranged lines of code in unfamiliar fashions because of dream piques. I've returned to a ritual, as I always do whe...
#### Pink Kaksteist > A hamster consumes her master (her higher power) and lies back, picking her > teeth, contemplating her evolution into a carnivore. One think I forgot to mention about Shambal's squalid abode is the smallish recess in the wall to the right of one of two portals. It is here that he performs his *experiments*. These strange dealings are confined solely to rodents. Well, *so far*, he always thinks. The hamster's name is *Pleurisy* and she recently returned from her morning hunt. Small c...
The piece I am currently working on is tentatively titled *Fog Beings*. I don't particularly like the title, but I have a disability that disallows me creating catchy titles for things. You see: My novel is named *November*. The connotations are as endless as the synapse is wide. I believe a comment existed in a conversation from a few days back concerning the replacement of synapses with fatty tissue. *Fog Beings* is divided into the following parts at the moment. #### Introduction Two synth arpeggios t...
As most humans have, I also have boxes full of *hovno* in various places. Well, I'd suspect that most humans don't have their boxes of *hovno* in various places, but rather in one place. As we are taught to accumulate from a very young age, most humans I know are various degrees of [packrat](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pack_rat). I've tried to shed the tendency, but cannot fully. I have boxes of *hovno* in Seminole, Praha and München. Those in München are most likely forever lost, however. Qué lastima. Tw...
Yesterday, I reached an impasse with the *Think Like A Mink* programming project. I hit a wall with [ember.js](http://emberjs.com) and was either too frustrated or too lethargic to deal with it. In the past, especially in a employment environment, such frustrations have led to stress. I am further carried upon the stream to unproductive agitation when this occurs. I have found that stepping back from a project for even a few days is the best solution. I shall do that now. Of course, when pondering this top...
Today's special writing music is *Open* by **The Necks**. I am pretty sure that my parents will interrupt me during the piece, as it is approximately one hour long. Yesterday, I spent most of my productive time grinding my molars on the bones of a Palm Civet. That is, I was getting authentication to function on the previously named *Radiotracking* site. The new moniker is, of course, *Think Like A Mink*. Though my *journal* is currently also hosted here, the main point of purchasing the domain name was to ...
I began listening to Zaar's debut and only album beinning on track two so that when it arrived to track six, I'd have already begun this entry. Not so! I was dealing with an email concerning my new flat in Logroño. Yes, and the correspondence is in Español, so it takes my watery brain more time to processes and compose.  So, we're on track six. The name of the track is *Omk*, and I find that name very descriptive of the music therein. It's a meandering...
Attempting to frown again, he reads over what he last wrote. "Nataša is righting the slobbering creature in the corner of the studio. It grunts and licks at her. She breathes a futile harumph. The thing's due to be on the air in thirty minutes and is clearly not ready. Half dressed and clearly stoned on some inebriating substance, one eye ogles her neckline while the other rolls eerily. She pulls at the ring on her left hand. She always does when her immediate desires do not come to fruition. "She slaps a...
I wrote *The Fen* when I was in [New Cross Gate](https://maps.google.com/maps?q=Pepys+Road,+London,+United+Kingdom&hl=en&sll=32.727458,-103.162855&sspn=0.173292,0.338173&oq=pepys&hnear=Pepys+Rd,+London+SE14+5SE,+United+Kingdom&t=m&z=15). One of its parts was supposed to be played on *mandolin*, but I never performed it to my satisfaction, the anal retentive twat that I am. I am revisiting it now.  The initial problem with this part, which repeats once, ...
But you are a hologram. Oh, you can believe that if you wish. It's all the same to me. In fact, I can easily assume that you are also a hologram. But I'm not made of well placed patterns of light. I'm made of sinews, various liquids, and a revolting stench which always precedes me. You got that last part right, at least. Sit down with me. I'll shut off the idiot-box. IDIOT-BOX. Don't they call it that where you come from? I don't come from anywhere. I was a test tube baby. I hope you see the contradict...
The piano plays a recurring theme, though it is not excatly recurring. It is an example of who were are right now. We are wandering. We do the same things over and over without question. We are stained by the purpose. The purpose is to stay the same. We can create, whilst we are here, but nothing we create will last outside of where we are. It is a box. Sealed. To break out of what we are is to be not what we are. For the splinters may ahnnihilate us. Shambal appears more tired than he'd ever seen him. His...
