As I lay there in my own blood, saliva and sweat, in the precipitation, in the cold, on the black stilled, hard surface, I knew I was finally downed. Not even Illustrious or Midway could have taken the strike. A G3 would have been sundered. And I went down.
I hit the deck and as I lay spastic, my thoughts were agonistic and apologetic. I still crunch the grit almost every moment, today my teeth grind the particles. What did I think as the road surface reached up to me and called my fall?
I thought about the kindness of my friends. The favours we had shared these past three days. The love of my fathers. The gentleness of my mothers. The caress of my family. I realised the stupidity of my speciality. I awaited the unending crunch on the ‘crete. I tasted the asphalt and drifted. The unknowned RTA.
This evening as I look at the face on the mirror, at the fizzogg, the bruised and contused mask, it is time to move and stop menturbating.
What was it that I smelled as I lay in my synesthesia?
The reason I fell?
I was thinking hard about what should right here as I walked in the downpour. The maelstrom that is my cogitative disorder is all consuming tarmac. The list and balance. I took the hit on the bow.
In order to orchestrate their ordure we must go back to the beginning. The thing that is a self organising state of monoheathenism and the fact that most, north of the ziggurat line, need to understand is that the line has moved north and east, to the
Oder. Not the
Danube/Rhine, as it was 2000 years ago.
If you can get your head round the timescales involved, you can understand why I lay in the European rain, bleeding.