Image source.
So there I stood, tank full once again, 40 odd quid lighter. I stared out of the service area’s sodium glare into the deep black beyond. Out into the cold, drizzled, sepulchered nation. I mused that if the clowns in charge get their way of de-knowledging us, again, then one day the whole country will be plunged into pre 15th century darkness, on plan, apart from a few chosen places where the bloodlines do their weird genital juxtapositioning, illuminated by over unity machines.
Pre 15th century before Christ.
Now we fast forward from sometime around 2:30am on a forecourt on the outskirts of the Lake district, to a little cottage in Alloway around 11:30am the next day.
Are we to rage against no one. To do violence unto a spectre. To vent volcanic spleen onto superconducting nothing. To kill ourselves. To be defeated, by design, by your own tongue.
Are we?
Aside No6. Before I die I will witness A mid Summer Night’s Dream on mid Summer Night at the Wanamakker Globe as I promised myself when I was unread in DNA and open system replication through closed system chaotic actors.
She holds my glassiphetriephied heart.
This is where a small glimpse of the dungeon state, the leper colony big society, the tired, clapped out old RISC’d pony show gets sent to the knacker’s yard.
This is where you and me take them gown. That is correct.
Gown.
