The Unlimited Dream Company

Write to my death, till my very last breath and the final pulse of my mind. There is nothing much left to do in my life except to live and write. Work is getting stale and I am faith in businesskind. The specticular collapse of the markets, I secretly wish for more. Its the height of capitalist greed and the lows of common sense. And you think on Earth only the particle accelerator in the Alps has the potential to create black holes. Life is expensive and intolerable. Degree, miserable job and lots of debts. Where is my bailout?

This is the modern world of highway robbery at every corner of life. Getting and education, gonna pay those frauds who would then buy a tower downtown with no educational signifance. Buying a house, robbery. My money into the pockets of those who would profit from using the lowest bidders several thousand percent over. Housing price is fixed and set according to market conditions. Yabba Yabba. I just want a damn house to live in! We need to move and line the pockets of the transport tycoons with our silver.

Where was I? Writing. Ranting. There is no love left for Wall Street and indeed the Main Street who would also fight for every cent of my money. Then there are the palm trees, the waves crashing into shore and the balmy breeze gently massaging my troubled mind. Simple things in life? No, its the product of a multi thousand dollar holiday somewhere so remote that every other human of the whole world and his swimsuits is on it too. Jostling for beach space and chairs. A crying baby, the speedboat dashing by with its motor screaming on and about its presence. Whirllll..... Wall Street, Main Street, Sandy beaches. No difference.

Announcing the not so amazing adventures of ... and they call me eccentric.

All hail the small wheels of the big machine, passionless and methodical. That is what keeps the world together and drive serfdom on. We are the peons of the golfball hitting, wine sipping and luxury cars racing autocrats. We are the water which allow fat to raise to the top in obscene quantities.

Everyday I devolve into something less intelligent and more mechanical. I am beginning to understand processes and rules more and the ease in which I can visualize the arts, sciences and letters is slipping away from me.

One big excel spreadsheet. There is not more beauty left, not the beauty which I know. Life trends towards the insanity of the post modern society. Sweat and tears.

74 days left to save my career.

I just got my hands on JG Ballard's The Unlimited Dream Company.

I got 77 more days from today, up from the original 60 days minus "Day what". Things are looking up slightly but not enough. I just want to flee to paradise.

Sixty days will determine my future. Just sixty.

I am not so sure how to go forward from here. From now on it will be a struggle. I have to work harder than most to stay afloat let alone prosper. Sixty days, just six minutes a day to write my thoughts. Now, I have one minute left, no I will make it six. For today I award myself 5 more minutes of writing time to suppress the tensions welling inside me.

This is stream of consciousness in your face stuff with plenty of disorganized and disinterested views of this apocryphal period of my life. I feel that my neck is just under the executing blade of the guillotine readied to be pulled upon the orders of the spreadsheet wielding bureaucrats.

Terror. The air is pure with modern terror. It is time to struggle.

Worn Out
No cash to go on holiday
Disappointed with Opera Company
What is the world coming to?