Hungry Ghost's Daily Diet (TM)

Dusty ice: What a lovely image. It reminds me of Bonito flakes, which can be used to make soup - real soup. Or so sayeth a group of Japanese hippies who congregated in a tent lit from within on a moonless night to speak of the pleasures of food and eating. Bad lighting though.

Under the skin, the lucidity becomes dim. Light fails and so we set sail. Dive then, dive then and enter the straits of turbulent waters.

Oh wait, I just entered a reverie. More's the pity, it wasn't revelry

If your God has passed you by, well hey, that's your deception. What's that you say? "Your angels speak with jilted tongue and serpents tails come undone?!" Oh dear. All is not well in Heaven nor Hell, or so it seems. Jilted tongues. What does a jilted tongue look like? More floppy and flabby than usual, I imagine. So how come it took so long for me to fumble my way into Sarah McLachlan's ecstasy. Vocal masturbation, said CAG, who was also a fan of Bate Kush, the rubber of rubber balloons. Oooh. I like that.

Drown in the river, enter the ocean, return to the beginning one last time, and dive back into the living

Ooops. Happened again, most distracting. My red piano - even if it comes from a summer house. Tacky. Later this week, I masuk Pintu Telarang. I'm sure there'll buckets of blood. B-U-C-K-E-T-S. It shall put Carrie's prom night to shame. I'm sure of it.

And that reminds me of a question I keep asking myself:

Dimana kan ku cari ganti serupa dengan mu? ...tinggalku sendirian, tiada berteman dalam kesepian. A song by the great P. Ramlee, lyrics by S. Sudarmaji.

The armies of the night have a conscription drive taking place at the moment. Charlotte took one look at them and signed up, but not without a backward glance or two. E.M Forster, there was another erudite fellow who had a knack with imagery. As for me, my fingers waggled in the general direction of the dotted line, but I didn't like the pen the quartermaster gave me so sent them on the way. Actually, that the troops were dismissed was due in part to the following (in order of appearance): BE, DWA, AM, JNB, DS (particularly him) and PJ, not once but twice. Safe for another day.

To bike or not to bike? That was the question posed. To baste or not to baste, that was another proposal mooted. I'm very sorry, I do apologise most profusely, Gentlemen, Bountiful Bitches and General Purveyors of Flowers in Baskets (with weevils), but to the first, I say "Perhaps, I shall put foot to pedal, but only when Hell freezes over like a grape carelessly flung out of the window during the depths of a Prairie winter", and to the second, "Baste away, no finger of mine shall be lifted, save to turn the page of a book, article or to desultorily spell out highly erudite and polite-sounding words with a hidden bite in them". That's right. I do not plan to be tractable. Rather the contrary, I fear.

And so sweetie, this is how reality intrudes into the reveries of the overactive mind. Finally, right out of the mouths of the little ones: "We shouldn’t use the word “hate” because it makes other people sad".

Yes. This is true, but then again, sad people sometimes create great beauty.

D the shuttle bus driver was insufferable today. Too much talk about metal detectors to find gold deposits. Rolled my eyes. Fool's gold - like a glorified salesman who promises, but doesn't deliver - glitters but tarnishes quickly. A pox on them all. A singularly, nasty, rash-like, itchy rash with burrowing things sort of pox.