"We Better Keep Moving"

The nights are long, the mornings pale and cold. Ruined sunflowers lie in frosted heaps between the trees. Every day I bridle the dark mare and canter along the road. The neighbourhood lies abed and despises my efforts. Sometimes a man will set deadly traps along the way, steel boxes full of teeth. But the mare positively prefers to prance lightly over these devilish boxes, for she hates the icy puddles along the road. She's a good horse, her name is Edwina de Bymingham, and she doesn't mind being tied up at University all day. What can I say? Public transit is expensive and getting to class is a long hard slog. Still, next year, I'm thinking of taking the bus.

Reading: There is very little greater pleasure than a good read. Unless it's alot of good reads. I've read a lot of good books this year, and I've had a good time. All that is behind me. Now I'm on to the crappy reads, the garbage reads, the books-read-just-so-I-can-menion-them-in-this-blog reads. Therefore, no links. Not to these reads. Just yesterday, it seems, I came down from the dark rich firmament that was Robert Louis Stevenson. No more sweet lines, now, no shapely sentences. How soon hath Time, that subtle thief of youth, used books to nick it. You see, last night I read the novelization of King Kong. Is this why my parents dandled me on their knee, teaching me the strange characters of the alphabet? Did they know there was a man out there, a crass man, a crass conglomerate behind him, who would filter out any possible scrap of goodness in the 1976 movie and lard the remainder upon an unsuspecting lad like me? If so, I wish I had never learned to read. My parents have betrayed me. I'm going to go down to the basement now, and sharpen the hunting knives.

Listening: I turn to music for solace. I find comfort in song. I look for salvation in popular hymns. What do I find? That music is a wasteland. Music makes me sick. There is no good music.

Erm. Wait. Wait a bit. Nope. No, it's true. Music is awful. Good-bye.