Woodpidgeons keep making little inflections into soundwaves, and it's a soft grey, cloudy bleary rain day. My brain aches from trying unsuccessfully to read german; and I am supposed to be revising the genetic make-up of arguments. I have an idea that I am going to be a disappointment to my parents. I posted chocolate mini eggs through doorboxes today and carried around my very own soundtrack to my life whilst I was walking around, which is useful for making reality seem less real.
This, is the answer. Don't attempt to live real life unless you have a distinct talent for it. Ich glaube dass ein echte Leben ist nicht was ich sollte machen. It is a waste, and it seems so much more delightful to be removed from it, provided I think of something to actually do. Get a grainy black & white telly, form a band, write books and learn dutch. Get tattoos and piercings and stop eating. Go protesting and travel. If I attempt to remove myself from real life, then I won't have to get so hurt everytime I see you. But I refuse to admit that okay is okay. I don't particularly want plastic garden furniture. Fly me to the moon, ahh-la la la la.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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