Why was it necessary to feel weakness, he had asked himself. The man was a few sticks and leaves covering a deep pit with spikes at the bottom. Put a foot wrong, put a hole in his carefully arranged disguise and he would fuck you up. The man is capable and talented. He knows you've said it all before and will say it all again.

To the pills, then, because Dango can't talk about this to anyone else. That's not allowed any more. It's not my fault, it's not my fault, he mutters, as he crushes up five milligrams of oxycodone and hopes for oblivion. What else can he do? Dango's gone too far. The idea that this information might be something he can cope with - without any kind of chemical aid or friend to confide in - scares the shit out of him, because what then has happened to his soul? Look; already he's debating whether to snort the powder or just leave it there on the table. He must snort the powder. If he doesn't then he is no longer human. Isn't that what he's always wanted, though?

It was always important, as someone who was weak, to become someone who was strong - but Dango forgot that the relationship between those who can cope and those who can't is symbiotic and the roles are impossible to reverse. It is necessary, he begins to realise, to keep writing. Because as long as Dango is writing he is using a coping mechanism and can thus delay the terrible moment when he must stand up alone - then go insane or die.

Why did he even look in the first place? The same reason he used to cut himself. To feel, to inoculate. To become Stronger Than, able to Cope With. Dango's spent his whole life dying and now that he's nearly dead he realises it wasn't worth it. What's the point of a hedonistic philosophy if you can't feel? It built on him, the horror, the horror, stacked quickly up Dango's spine and spread through his gut until he was certain he would vomit... but he didn't vomit. It ebbed away at a reasonable pace, while he was running around and crushing up the pill, and now he's not sure what to do, the rush of dread has worn off. He goes back and takes another hit but a tolerance has built up and by now he's fairly certain it will be unnecessary to snort the powdered oxycodone. Great. Fantastic. A lifetime goal has been achieved. Dango is ready, and strong, and able and willing. He can do anything.

Just like he always wanted, Dango's heart has turned to stone.

Good god the man’s a psychopath… and I on acid surrounded by drug addicts„, everything goes creepy crawlie but the intensity is impossible to communicate… You’ll just lie here giggling to yourself like a moron, too brain fucked to know if you even piss on yourself which I think he did… There is no distance, only size and sensation like damp. Don’t tell me to imagine spiders, shit, keep all that, I don’t give a fuck, I can hear in like five directions, I’m good, thanks.

The words are coming out real slow and intense, like he watching it close up in a cave. Watch yourself melt away into this weird little spiral thing, some bullshit that is. Noise happen from all angles. MY GODDAMN THROAT FEELS FUCKED UP AND WEIRD IN ALL THE WRONG DIRECTIONS. Chew on a blotter then go have sex, I calculate that that would fuck you right in the brain. It’s the things you can’t control that will sneak up and rape you, anything you look to as a deliberate attempt to blow your own mind will just bore you then to the fucking windows man, get a good load of that motherfuckery. Some sort of jig going on over there. Bad cold feely has to go away, please. Like god stuck his finger into my brain and twist it around a bit, breathe through your elbows and SPIN. Keanu Reeves like a goddamn hentai voice actor. These fucking junkies, responsible as they are for all crime, are sitting around me drinking their goddamn drug juice - infernal cacti, flashing lights, all bullshit implicit with that - watching their goddamn movies, intent on achieving final wisdom as they all are.

The matrix isn’t real? Whatever man, stow that bullshit. He face all delayed from itself. I feeeling… That’s what it’s about, it’s about sensation. Existing in like five different directions of gravity. Nah man, you want that your underpants should be OK. What the fuck are these squid-like apparatus… FINISH. THE FUCKING STORY.

Uuh so like imagine if, I don’t know, God, and uuuuh… Charlie Sheen, right, they have a baby and then this baby grows up on a steady diet of bright lights and furry colours and then FINGERS YOUR BRAIN. You don’t understand the degree to which you rely on your sane mind until you’ve had it really fucked around a bit… Wind in the brain, you know how it gets… These sociopaths are all hydrophobic you know…

"You don't actually propose to wear this fucking hideous garment do you?' he says, reaching out across thousands of light years and plucking it from my head, pedantic motherfucker that he was.

"I propose that I can wear whatever hat I fucking well choose to wear and furthermore that you're an asshole" I respond, snatching it back and storming from the building into the streets. That was the end of Act One, I have not seen my father for thirty seven million years since and have no intention to neither.

Advice that I was given.

'Stick to what you know' he says, begging the question, what do I know? I like hypnotism and magic and paranoia and cereal. They make me feel alive, but my actual knowledge of them is inexpressible at best. I do not believe in knowledge. There are only objects, there is no information. Knowledge is extrapolated from certain shapes and configurations of matter; it does not exist like they do. It is arbitrary. This is why I like cereal. Cereal is real.

Apologue One.

There is this man you see of much power much power indeed I am in his debt real bad what do I owe him you ask? I owe him money, sir, capital borrowed and then lost in business ventures foolish to start them really I am no businessman no businessman at all I thought I could make it at the time blinded I was by the proposal came straight from G- hisself I thought at the time telepathic bond with G- I thought I had at the time talked with him all the time I thought at the time. It takes money to make money or so they say so I borrow fifty k or so from a voodoo wizard real skinny he was about twenty three or so dressed up in track pants and a singlet never left Mount Druitt his whole life but he was the best they said he could work his voodoo up to two miles in any direction three if the weather was good and the only person give out credit to people like me anyway. It's good to keep tabs on your friends this wizard tell me rather cryptic his remark was no clue at the time what it meant no clue at all. He use snakes to do his work for him got them trained or maybe hypnotised not sure which but regardless they always do what he says and the effect is atmospheric and appropriate real magic goes on here you can tell you can smell it in the air and the snakes is a definite image-booster. 'Is it even possible to train reptiles' I wonder out loud he shoots me a look that look means I'm either stupid or that it is inappropriate to talk here his apartment being a sacred shrine you see either way I is inclined to believe he got his snakes under hypnotic influence.

trip

England bubbles up thick around my eyes and ears - The desert falls away - I am a miraculous apparition - A gypsy curse - The women on the train is fucking awful, blaming every one else for all her problems and loudly too - Augment reality; blink your eyes and the scene has changed, it has altered - Not the same - I have returned to someone else's life - Someone else's bed - Horrible, horrible - Kick back - Manchester is a bummer - Welcome to Bradford, now fade away - This beach is TOXIC. DO NOT SWIM at this beach - I have these dreams, doctor, where I've jumped off a building, and time stops as a sort of self defence, because the instant my feet leave the ground I do no want to die any more - Surely there is something I can do - The idea of not buying a suit ceased to exist - Feels like an appropriate place to read Slaughterhouse 5 - I've got to lock it down, I can make it real and permanent with words - No loose ends - Paranoia comes on fast - These French types keep asking me for directions, I keep telling them I don't speak French - They're deadly serious about their interior decoration - A sane way to introduce yourself I guess - Get hammered at your grandfathers 80th - Wouldn't you? - Is this complimentary? - Let's rifle through their stuff a bit - The magic shop is staffed by an angry cockney man named 'Barry', it's working well for me - I've got to find that book - Time stops here, replaced by money and insanity - Why did I buy this, and not that? - Seems like a reasonable name for a brothel - Upon arriving in Hampstead Heath I practically trip over a roach - Lost, but only physically and the natives seem friendly enough anyway