London: a lost world. (2006)

The dripping buckets, the Dictaphones, the slowed-down tape machine; recordings, papers, secrets, ashtrays, the literature…I have it all tucked over my drawers, watched over by the ugly portraits of another man’s daughter that died forty winters ago. All I really have is an Aunt, mad and hallucinogenic…but not that mad, not that far gone. I’d rather a life nearer the edge. I’d rather be an addict than some mere pretend player – dabbling here and there. I would rather strongly live or be heavily deceased than this.
This is constant masturbation. But anon…here you are God – a present of reluctance…out in purgatories…more factories of penance.
Tonight I met a girl. Christ. I don’t know if I really like her or if I just like the idea of having someone grope me, own me, take power over me and vice versa …the idea to feel something. Entire lives are put to waste in attempt to blank out the feelings and now I finally have it within my reach…to feel nothing. It all comes out now. The truth – Gibran said there were several but tonight there is just one. Just one truth for Floyd. A coma is what is needed, deep and heavy. To pass into beyond, be forgotten, be forgiven; to become somebody else, have an excuse to change rather than seem merely multi-characterial. I cannot even part lips with a woman, I cannot converse with the populace…hardly a single member. And I am no freak, no abnormality, no nerd. I am capable of greatness and was once capable of wisdom yet here I sit, scratching down these words to whom it may concern.

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