I am slow cooking my food so it senses the air that forms it, I am falling apart, opening and closing like a cashbox, only for very particular exchanges. I stay awake all night and sleep all day so I won't have to face the bright cold of daylight, or leaving my house. It's ok, though; I'll just change the music: it's killing me. That's as far as I'll go. Douglas Coupland sounds like a good idea, actually-- thanks.
& then: I said I feel like every cell in the air is a peeping tom, ready to part the curtains. Look at me. This is not bad, not good: I feel like an unwritten sex-diary.
Matt has just defined our current condition as: Urban Stress Ennui. How very exact. I'm either so excited I don’t know which way to look, or so bored I feel like puking. Again: apt, exact. Then we discussed how Christmas was freaking us out (we’re intellectualising our gifts too much), and followed it with an analysis of what a Douglas Coupland character would do during Christmas: abuse of prescription drugs, more abuse of prescription drugs to combat the affects of the first round, vapidity, fashion, pregnancy, then, finally, the voice of God in a Jacuzzi, concluding with, "Yeah, that pretty much sounds like my life." i.e.: You look like David Bowie, but you've nothing new to show me. Xavier-Mom has advised me to take a long walk, take a bath and imbibe much hot liquid. The panacea. I will do so, now. Thank you, boys: that was swift. & Apt.