They called me Mr. Glass

Hot buttered toast is the ultimate in foods to drag the imagination into overload. I suddenly feel deep regret that I have eaten it, because I was just about to go to bed and now my brain is full of words once more. They itch and scratch, wanting to get out. They keep me awake at night. Either that or the high dosages of caffeine that the average student ingests daily. I prefer the former. It feels more artistic. *smiles*

My speakers have packed up again. It's starting to get a right pain. I have to keep waggling the wires all the time to get noise. Break in the cable it seems.

The room around me is dark, enclosing me in a cucoon of dim glow from the monitor. I love the way it feels like you're hiding away when it's dark. Wrapping up in duvet improves the effect of course, especially due to the nights getting colder. It's really weird, I'm starting to feel more and more like I am writing to an audience rather than random spoutings for my own benefit. Stop it. Stop it now.

The fear has ebbed now. That weird fear that prevented me from feeling happy for many weeks. I feel things are settled. Well, as settled as they can possibly be.

I feel my toes are slowly getting colder as the night draws on and the warmth of the day is slowly starting to dissapate into the amber street light glow. This is crazy, my mind is full of words. Full of words that are so mixed together they don't make sense, like Bruce Nolan in Bruce Almighty. WOW! IS IT GETTING LOUD IN HERE!

The gentle buzz of the fans are calming. I've really got to invest in a chair. I'm probably going to get a flat behind if I keep sitting on my case every time I want to use the computer. No wonder I've been spending a minute amount of time in the house.

I've really got to get some excercise. I feel not a whole lot better than last month, when I promised myself I would go to the Gym. Oh, how promises take a tumble when they are inside your head. Promises to other people are different, because you are expected by somebody else to carry out that promise. When it's in your head, you only have a little voice nagging you all day.

I'm still recovering slowly after John Peel's death. It's a shock, and I don't think it's truly sunk in that he's gone. As I joked to Dan the other night: 'Let's celebrate his memory by getting a turntable, buying an obscure record and then playing it at the wrong speed.'

No-one should be afraid of death, but equally no-one should be afraid of life. As everyone always tells you 'you have to live your life to the full and the way you want to'. I like the principle of: Do what you want to do, because tomorrow you could be hit by a bus and then that'll be the end of your life. All that'll happen is wherever you end up, you'll be saying to yourself 'Oh, I wish I'd done that.' It's too late, get over it.

I like that principle. It's good and it works. It's just a shame I can't live up to my own expectations. I procrastinate. I don't make the most of my life. I hate myself for it. The rain is starting to blow at the window. I shiver at the concept of the cold wet day that the sound will generate for tomorrow by it's mere presence at this moment in time. I can feel the grey clouds looming above, even though I don't even have my curtains open. Sensory perception and all that jazz. The sound of the rain blowing against the window is an 'earcon' for greyness, cold, windy, damp, and above all, sodden. The world is a crisp pile of cartridge paper and the rain will turn it into a damp, soggy mess. The writing made up of signposts and graffiti, the coffee stains are of leaf-mulch, and the lines are just the tears and rips caused by everyday life. The rain will turn it all into a pulp of dark mush, where the lines are blurred, the coffee washes away down into the drains, the graffiti remains however, much like permanent marker, and will still remain when the pages dry into the warped configuration of the world. Still legible, but altogether more difficult.

But as they say, tomorrow's another day. Yes, another day less for you to exist. Make your mark, otherwise you'll be washing away with the coffee and the stains when your pages float away.