gah my head hurts. It feels like a great pressure is being applied to the crown of my head. I suppose that is gravity, but I'm sure I'm not usually so acutely aware of it. My eyes feel like they may burst from my skull. Something in this office smells of the elderly. That smell that exists between the skin and the clothes of the elderly, that you can smell when stood near to them and they move and the air is suddenly expelled from them, air that has remained in these pockets and folds for an amount of time, enough time to take on an odour of stagnant smelling slow death. I watched the rubgy this weekend, which is something I normally don't do because I have a natural aversion to the weird culture of The Sports Fan. The colours, the battle-cries, the solidarity between vicarious winners and losers. But rugby I can watch, it turns out. Those men built like oxes, grass stained and bleeding. Rugby is not a game for anyone, like football which I find dull as fuck and the fans even more alarmingly over-zealous. At least, you can appreciate that these men are made to play rugby and nothing else. There's no posturing or much celebrity. It's rough. My head hurts. Blood Meridian is an excellent book, I'm not even halfway in and I feel safe saying that. I want to read more but am trapped at this desk like a cripple in a wheelchair.
"Anything going on?"
"Not as yet my darling."
"..."
Lunchtime soon.
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2 comments:
you're good at art, im jealous of you
thank you brandon, I am jealous of your writing skills.
You are a clever bastard.
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