Question my motives. I do.
May. 1st, 2004 03:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hirezThis begins its life scribbled on the back of an A4 envelope from the Landmark Trust - I'd maybe make LJ2ME work if I could look at a screen for any length of time without wanting to vomit, but that avenue is currently unavailable since I'm in day three or four of the most/least entertaining migraine yet.
The only things I can stand to do are/is listen to Radio 3 and stare at flowers. Maybe the muscular exercise required to focus on the various parts of the bunch is providing much more of a filling meal than the regular gruel-based diet of a flat screen filled with xterms. Who can say? The chap explaining the inner mechanisms of fugues is equally entertaining. It's like a mathematically rigorous Jazz Club.
I wrote this out in longhand because I cannot stand to read words on a screen. Words, when joined up properly, are supposed to sink into your soul or long-term memory or wherever they go to live forever. These... Sit around for a bit, shifting quietly and uncomfortably like a slick of diesel, before wandering off to do some shopping. It's not a good thing to watch one's friends-list turn into babble. Real lives (or so one cheerfully assumes) turned into spa-foyer background hubbub. The spirit is largely willing - I'm a bloody hacker denied the tools of his calling/addiction - but the vision centre(s), or whatever the hell else is/are cowering in the corner howling for ibuprofen, has/have gone 'fuck you' and pitched the toys from the pram.
I should be able to see y'all later.
The only things I can stand to do are/is listen to Radio 3 and stare at flowers. Maybe the muscular exercise required to focus on the various parts of the bunch is providing much more of a filling meal than the regular gruel-based diet of a flat screen filled with xterms. Who can say? The chap explaining the inner mechanisms of fugues is equally entertaining. It's like a mathematically rigorous Jazz Club.
I wrote this out in longhand because I cannot stand to read words on a screen. Words, when joined up properly, are supposed to sink into your soul or long-term memory or wherever they go to live forever. These... Sit around for a bit, shifting quietly and uncomfortably like a slick of diesel, before wandering off to do some shopping. It's not a good thing to watch one's friends-list turn into babble. Real lives (or so one cheerfully assumes) turned into spa-foyer background hubbub. The spirit is largely willing - I'm a bloody hacker denied the tools of his calling/addiction - but the vision centre(s), or whatever the hell else is/are cowering in the corner howling for ibuprofen, has/have gone 'fuck you' and pitched the toys from the pram.
I should be able to see y'all later.
