WOVEN PSYCHOLOGY OF NO.

A committed hoarder, willfully employed as the keeper of the waste of human existence, I shan't protest the label, if it waddles and quacks it's a duck, guilty. Guilty. A social marauder, little chance of rehabilitation I am free to squirrel my treasure. Rubbish and mistakes are only rubbish and mistakes in the lives of those who make them, the objective removed, the severe gravity of others quest for success gone, I clean up success every day, morning coffee is success. It tastes so much better with a smile knowing today will be a good day. If third party emotions are never accounted for the contextual intercourse of my thoughts create a cats cradle of cerebral connections that has a visual noise so load I simply can't take anymore and then, and then the lights go off and the calmic pleasure of becoming an automaton spreads down the lines. I have reached capacity and beyond. I keep, I record, I display, I file, I save, I archive, I move, I loose, I sink into a pathetic heap unable to store any more. In waking I am overwhelmed by the very idea of being, thoughts conflict my id, I struggle and wrestle with the parched voice of reason whose mental estate is a picket fence away from being repossessed by the bailiffs of self belief, those dangerous fellows whose delusional pseudo-reality plays on loop more often now.

This is the way the patterns emerge, a chaotic order, strata of my life formed into a discography of sounds. Beats and clicks, beats and clicks. Far from a chronological march, the parts of my life are represented in a number series unlike the hours and days and weeks, a numerical exponent whose relationship is with its present self rather than its past, there is no past. A breeding micro-culture of selfish calculus tick, tick, tick, an abacus for life whose length has no predetermined time. Yesterday for instance lasted for 1173 ticks 14 clicks and a solitary whistle, today has been shorter a mere 1047 ticks dead.

Verbal incontinence stains a narrative that expands and contracts with the waistline of bloated self-confidence. I love you o.k. Bye. It's a lump in my throat, in my stomach, in m y head and in my heart. Inoperable and completely debilitating at times, an emotional barrier manifested in a physical condition, preventing mental growth, a checkpoint for over excitable ambition whose chances are cruelly expunged when I find myself dreaming of being at school, I look down and I have no trousers on. The pain. There's no going back from there.

I yawn I yawn I yawn I bore myself sometimes, its not hard, Iive with anyone for too long and the cracks will appear. I try to surprise myself daily, even that has become predictable.