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...
Discussions involving swabbing the anuses of one's in-laws always lead to constructive conclusions. I've pondered many times in this *journal* and in many other *tomes* lying about about how my upbringing shaped me. Marred me, rather. I sometimes think whether I can put a positive spin on my childhood and how it affected my current personality. I'd firstly like to say that it taught me resilliance. I was for years bombarded with scurrility from my so-called *peers*. Even my friends found negative reinforce...
#### Pink Kolmteist > On slowly sloping hills where mägi house themselves, the grass grows in > arbitrary blotches. Shambal clutches the blanket around his shoulders with one hand. The other holds an old, wilted journal open between his legs. The stained blanket falls all about him. It's his only protection from the chill. His *proper* clothing has long since rotted in the closet without a door. The resulting nest is a home for a mouse named *Murida*. She is saved for another story, however. The entry in...
He uncrosses his eyes for a moment, then lets them drift back out of focus. For a few seconds, he clearly saw leaves in varying shades of green moving in slender lines like serpents rolling and squirming. Those reptiles took some hallucinagen or other. He thinks of ferns and then the fibbonacci sequence. Blotches of sloppy green swim in spirals in front of him. He wants to stand. He tries to stand. The trap around his ankle does not allow him to. He settles back, wishing to regain strength. Nataša had tol...
#### Pink Kolmteist > The girl in the turquoise skirt comes again to flitter in the mindless breeze > across my viewscreen as I haughtily ignore her. A part of me considers Shambal a prophet. I despise prophets. A girl in a skirt so bright that I am blinded whilst trying to scope her legs walks by in intervals of approximately 13 minutes. Her earrings are also turquoise. They swing most likely to the beat that pulses through the earbuds above them. She cannot possibly be trotting to the rhythm, though, as...
Shambal reclines wearily in a grimy chair. It's wooden frame creaks as he shifts uncomfortably. The hempish fabric still holds, even after decades of wear. A large *WAD* of lipids bulges from part of his right buttock. Many of its cells are mutated. Shambal has waited too long to have it removed without consequence. He's been told it'll grow at a linear rate. The discomfort he feels now will increase, but he won't feel anything but minor, occasional throbs for years to come. His conclusion is not to deal w...
Choosing a washed out photo seems most appropriate considering my personality is washed out. My colours are faded. I am not distressed. I am just fatigued. Historically, Ruidoso brought relief from the searing cultural dearth of West Texas. How an artistic, progressive community grew up there still amazes me.  I'm happy to be surprised. My opinion of the *good ol' USA* sank so low during all my time in Europe that it may be found *cerca de ...
