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Snippets of conscious thought

Snippets of a few of my own writing. I am inspired by the magic about those who have, in the past, written, shared and enshrined many aspects of their conscious soul, mind, character and personality. How to live beyond your bones.

Of many bewildering stories, spun into narrative  in people; courtesy of having lived. In a world which so badly needs more stories from real people, despite all. We need them, for , as a picture can say a thousand words, words too can illustrate a thousand pictures.

As Sylvia Plath once said:

“I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still”.

This is partly the fuel for my flames when writing; necessity weeps and gasps if I keep the thoughts and word within me consistently oppressed. Left to the assault of declining health and age, this voice will not be silenced by any future incapacity.

I love to write .

Snippets of conscious thought; writing, recorded, real. Plus for the benefit of others.

Cognito Ergo Buzzzzzzzzz

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Cogs grind and mash potatoes of memorable thought… And the end result looks quite like this.


Cognito Ergo buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

How do honey bees “communicate” with one another?
“Dancing.” Honey bees do a dance which alerts other bees where nectar and pollen is located. The dance explains direction and distance. Bees also communicate with pheromones.

Humans who say: ‘but we are the only creatures sophisticated and intelligent enough to have developed language, built structures and discovered space, flight and self-awareness’, you poor, misguided narcissistic souls! May you all find intelligent thought beyond your ego eventually!

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Breathing leaves

Save the Sheffield Trees


Save the Sheffield Trees

Long live the branches which stretch and sprout like alveoli, backwards, into Sheffield’s skies.
Long live the liberators of fresh air, rebels of the smog which was
The fumes of the factories and fudge worth in soil
The smack in the back thanks for hard worker’s toil
Soothed by those branches as the lung dies
That it might live, given that green philosophers still drink
The toxic from the cloud, to salvage all that lost sound to the cough
Which kept from the people the gift of some silence to think
Of other, better things, greener things.


Try something optimistic

Every cloud you see is a liquid composition of the world and all its workings. It hangs in the sky peacefully absorbing all that life throws up, until one day it becomes too heavy, grows dark, gloomy and tired.

The cloud, no longer floating effortlessly in the blue of the sky, begins to sink downwards with the overbearing weight of the world. Reaching its limit, the cloud is forced to shed all it has carried for so long, spraying the earth with a glittery downpour.

The beauty of the world becomes distorted by a storm of secrets held so tight for too long. Yet if you’re brave enough to stand through the storm, you will see it come to an end, replaced instead by the bright sunshine that was there all along. Only now do you realize, how grateful you are for that violent storm; it was this cloud’s outburst that let you see the sun again.


Weight makes you fall.

It makes you fall through the air; it breaks your bones as you crash. If only you were lighter, you plead. Then falling would feel easier, and the crashing would be softer.

What even is this mass? You sigh, fighting a losing battle with gravity. This weight is a time bomb, and one day it’s bound to bang. What a faulty design, an unforgivable flaw in my making! Why lace snow with this inexplicable fire?

Yet one day you’ll learn that it isn’t isn’t in vain. All darkness plays a role, no matter how opaque. What good is a feather, against the thrashing hurricane? Take a swim and you’ll see; you won’t drown in the lake.


Flirtatious Paranoia

The human capacity to catastrophize and live under the invisible thumb of crushing anxiety, seems in many ways to manifest itself in equally formidable forms of expressive artwork, buildings and religious rituals based upon nothing but our own mind wishing for abatement. Note- this is only based on today’s thoughts on the odd tapestry which threads together a discombobulating overall human (et al.) existence. So tomorrow I might think something entirely different.

Aside from the comforting theory of evolution- which I guess may host the argument that tendency to catastrophize and dwell on dark possibilities must have been a winner in terms of survival of the fittest- the full extent of just how sadistic, self-destructive and imaginative we happen to be as humans is difficult for me to accept as merely the evolutionary economics of whichever genetic sequences led to a human condition which actually gets sexually aroused by the idea of utter chaos and nightmarish scenarios. I suppose those with the most brutal of minds survived because violence and the habit of seeing it carried out mentally- sometimes almost forcing yourself to think horrible thoughts- won battles. Perhaps, a suspicious and unchained mind is so used to witnessing mental representations of death, decay, torture and trepidation desensitized certain groups throughout the ages, naturally electing the anxious and paranoid into power, control and domination.

Of course the whole tiresome nature/nurture debate has to come in here- is anxiety and attraction to painful mental theatrics simply a coincidence of our Ribosomes’ knitting together of chemical bonds; creating innate cognitive patterns of thinking, or have we learned our uncomfortable imagination? Are we flirting with paranoia, or is paranoia flirting with us?

What if what if what if what if… repeating routines and mantras to suppress self-loathing and distract yourself from horrible images and thoughts, often appears to induce life-restrictive coping mechanisms such as OCD, Eating Disorders, Self-Harm, disassociation of identity leading sometimes to the manifestation of multiple ‘personalities’, which mechanically respond to various mental triggers.


A rant and a call to action

For anyone who fancies taking either employers (thinking in particular of zero-hours contracts and no entitlement to holiday pay), or for this matter the present government to court for violations against UN law as stipulated by the UNDHR, bear in mind these two particularly useful articles within the legislation:
Article 23.
(1) Everyone has the right to work, to free choice of employment, to just and favourable conditions of work and to protection against unemployment.
(2) Everyone, without any discrimination, has the right to equal pay for equal work.
(3) Everyone who works has the right to just and favourable remuneration ensuring for himself and his family an existence worthy of human dignity, and supplemented, if necessary, by other means of social protection.
(4) Everyone has the right to form and to join trade unions for the protection of his interests.
^ Top
Article 24.
Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of working hours and periodic holidays with pay.
There is also much more within the UNDHR which may be of particular interest in relation to things that are happening to us in the real world pretty much all the time… We all have the power to do something!


A day in January 2014

A Monday, was the twilight’s last bow; To Earth and her spinning wheel show. Time, you see; is a work of textiles. Tapestry of the infinite: THE only Tapestry which will make sense of an ‘infinity’; A concept we never could have imagined
comprehending, before we fell into the weaves. SEEING and TOUCHING, locomotive creation; Art. Yet, bizzarely plausible.


50 Shades of Grey tells the story all wrong

50 Shades of Grey is exactly that; grey. The mind and substance of Christian Grey as a fictional character, portrays nothing of true excitement to anyone who can see that this is merely a damaged shell dressed in a suit; he is a child with a complex, and a victim of his own lack of creativity and imagination. So the reader learns of the childhood which shaped the bearer of money and a whip, and is invited to express pity and perhaps find a way to justify, and even applaud, how the adult grey comes to terms with the child grey, and fails. The male protagonist which has apparently aroused and earned the lust of so many female readers, is actually only a child acting re-shaping his emotional misguidance in the form of a play; Ana is the actress to take on the role of his ‘crack whore’ mother, while child Grey plays adult Grey, in a sub-conscious attempt to re-create, and therefore make sense of the lack of definition which plagues his understanding of his true self.

The ‘erotic’ novel which follows this psychological confusion, is actually only the evidence of profound failure, on the behalf of a confused man with money, to overcome the eternal trap of a narrow mind; hence why 50 shades of grey serves as it’s own metaphor, depicting a life devoid of any other colour but grey, and if grey is all there is for this man, then it is only natural that he must seek refuge in the confines of all it has to offer; 50 shades. What this ought really to draw our attention to, is the refusal or inability to conceive of a world anywhere beyond that one ‘colour’; hence one mindset, and restricted access to any other mental tools with which we can experience life rationally and emotionally, all colours and shades included. This cognitive ability to imagine and therefore to develop, is perhaps something which most of us take for granted, and so the idea of narrowing it down to one, very primative and simplified experience becomes arousing in allowing women to ‘escape’ the boredom of having so much choice. Is that why it is secretly fun to fantasize about being brutalised and raped; whipped with a chisel into submission? For Ana, her shyness and lack of self-confidence is obviously a tool for Grey to exploit; because consent becomes blurred for the pair of these individuals, and therefore in a land of no definitive boundaries, anything is possible. Ana surely comes out of this trilogy as the ‘winner’, in the sense that at least she gained an experience through her torture, and because of the fundamental paradox of the whole story; that the shy, low-esteemed character who appears the weakest of the two, was actually always the stronger and more capable person as a whole and in terms of potential, readers are actually drawn to contemplate who the ‘real prisoner’ actually is.

In summary, ladies; there are far more arousing ways to play mentally with the fantasy of being submissive. First, you need a dominatrix who isn’t weak and childlike in their practice. If it’s a man who dominates, surely it is far better that he is a living manifestation of strength and power. Not merely even power alone though; power with authority- which is consensual domination, and in order for a dominatrix to qualify here, he or she must have the mental capability to recognise what is part of ‘the game’, and what isn’t, i.e. consent. Trying to kid ourselves into believing that a man like Christian Grey is a good candidate for playing ‘dom’, is a massive waste of energy. Do we not realise here, that by allowing a character who is essentially still a child, in terms of what they can comprehend, we are actually sub-consciously stepping into the role of dominatrix ourselves? Lets get it right; if we want to be the ‘sub’, then we need a real ‘dom’. Perhaps if women find the 50 Shades of Grey version of a dominator so arousing, it ought to reveal a little truth to them about their own ‘hidden desires’, are they sure they’re actually so convinced they want to be the submissive?

Now, compare the mind of Mr. Grey with the mind of the narrator in this poem, and make your own decision:

To His Coy Mistress
By Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.


Quotes I like significantly; a ongoing accumulation of…


“Voices rise, they blend, they fade, one hears them at one’s shoulder moving to the end of the room, the noise of the undertow.The sound waves drift away like circles of smoke, but somewhere continue in existence, they are always there, the world is full of voices… An infinite chatter over which death has no dominion; immortal and immaterial souls are stray ultrasounds in the universe.”From Claudio Magris’ book; ‘Microcosms’.


“Great leaders, Warriors and Shamans of many nations will be born and they will cleanse the earth for rebirth. Next will come the Planters sowing seeds of truth, justice and freedom. The Storytellers, Warriors and Planters will live in the way of the Great Spirit and teach ways to keep Mother of the Ground sacred forevermore. They will be called Rainbow Warriors for they will gather the four sacred directions, all distinctly separate but forever connected in the Circle of Life.”- Lee Standing Bear Moore, Manataka American Indian Council



“Together we, “the children of the rainbow”, the returning ancestors, restore the garden, fulfilling our missions, re-creating heaven on earth.” -Rainbow Warrior Hopi Indian philosophy on rebirth, consciousness and the circle of life


Amarushka– “Seek Ye first the Kingdom of Righteous within so that you will realize the truth without!”


Albert Einstein-
“A human being is a part of a whole, called by us _universe_, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest… a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the the universe.”

“Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from weak minds.”

“We dance for laughter, we dance for tears, we dance for madness, we dance for fears, we dance for hopes, we dance for screams, we are the dancers, we create the dreams.”


Taken from ’45 life lessons written by a 90 year old’- Frame every so-called disaster with these words, ‘In five years, will this matter?”


Can’t actually remember where I found this one-  Grandparent: “The self is host to two beasts which are constantly battling with one another. One side is good, the other is evil.” Child: “Which side wins?
Grandparent: “The one you feed.”


Terry Pratchett: “One of the recurring philosophical questions is: ‘Does a falling tree in the forest make a sound when there is no one to hear?’ Which says something about the nature of philosophers, because there is always someone in a forest. It may only be a badger, wondering what that cracking noise was, or a squirrel a bit puzzled by all the scenery going upwards, but someone.”


“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” Nietzsche


“Get uneasy, get scared, become a beginner again. If you think you know it all, find something you know nothing about, and learn it well…
If there’s one piece of advice I would give every person, it would be to get lost.
Finding yourself is not a comfortable process, nor should it be. It is petrifying.” Rebecca Lammersen (Read on Elephant


“God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.” – Voltaire


“Anything is funny, as long as you can laugh at it!”Lewis Carroll
“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” – Roald Dahl


‘To surrender, I can accept; but to lose I would regret.’Anon


‘In the shamanic view, mental illness signals “the birth of a healer,” explains Malidoma Patrice Somé. Thus, mental disorders are spiritual emergencies, spiritual crises, and need to be regarded as such to aid the healer in being born.’


‘I would gladly risk facing the potential bad feelings, if it meant that I could taste my dessert!’Data to Timothy on Star Trek, in his talk of what is good in humans.




Stories from anyone’s mind

A reflection about my time spent living with an eating disorder 

The cold was stifling my ability to think, to wake, or to dream. I lay there, wrapped in a cocoon of duvets and blankets- I had all the necessary luxuries in life that one could need for comfort and survival. One of the lucky ones, out of the world, as a whole.

But still, I lay there, shimmering in my own unblanchable flesh, feeling chilled through to the bone. Cold was something i’d gotten used to then, a constant state in which I had to endure or forget. Functioning like a ghost, you crack on.

I remember a point: walking back from one place in town to another, with an old friend. We were talking, I think the conversation was trivial and non too demanding, but interesting. Enough for me to mentally curse the hands of mine, which had gone beyond numb, to physically exhausting in their ice. They were distracting me from the conversation, which was a low moment for me, because it was the first undeniable evidence, that at functioning, I was failing. Failing to even hold a conversation, trapped by the price i’d had to pay for commanding and distorting my own body.

I’d become too emotionally attached to the artwork I was trying to create. The point at which the artist becomes the victim of their own insatiable will to manipulate imagery and colour, in order to spill out of themselves, a never ending flow of constant change, and perceives it as ‘progress’. There comes a point, at which every painter has to make the decision that the final piece is indeed final, and it is time to soak the bristles. Hang up the apron, stand back and let the landscape be.

I was stuck in the mud of my own addiction to crafting. I’d actually stopped painting, drawing, singing and making, in the external sense. All of it came to a halt, when I embarked upon the new project of internal consequence; depriving and diluting my body, in an effort to sculpt it into a new shape, a shape of shocking contour, freakish distortion, and many many edges. There could never be too many edges. I got lost in my own little ‘treasure hunt’, to find more jutting edges, new lumps, new angles and their contrasts to bone.

It was, upon reflection, an abstract mission, kindled by surrealist yearnings, which necessitated the adoption of a kind of minimalism, in order to find solace through expressionism.

At least, that’s one way of looking at it. man-ray-brassai-and-gelatin-silver

The Plethora of the Vocab

I like words, especially when arranged in such a way as to portray something wonderful and strange. Or to stir that inner creature of us all; tickle it into wakefulness and bring it to the surface; bringing with it the tangle of imagination and art which can occasionally be seduced into hibernation and thus temporarily forgotten by the busy, distracted mind.
You can tend to forget how to rouse the thing called ‘imagination’ as you get older, and it becomes somewhat mystical, as though something magical only belonging to children and lost through the years. You sit there sometimes, agonising. You feel like you can’t even remember HOW to imagine, how to genuinely believe your own thoughts when they try to break free from the expected.
So this is one reason I love the invitation to return to imagining what a thing could be like, which mere words can bring through a story, asking you to picture a scene.
Here are some such words which possess this power not unlike that of a coated paintbrush, upon a blank canvas:
(Found Among the Papers of the Late Francis Wayland Thurston, of Boston)
“Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival… a survival of a hugely remote period when… consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity… forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds…” —Algernon Blackwood
“Then I experienced the most peculiar sensation of all. Language almost fails me when I try to formulate this sensation in words. The closest approximation is this: imagine stepping not into another man’s shoes but, rather, into his soul. Even as I write this, that paltry description appears feeble in comparison to the odd, but not at all uncomfortable sensation of expansion that I felt as whatever is ‘I’ grew, as if from a seed, into whatever was ‘him’ and the two of us became one… I confess that I almost became lost in this new world, for, given access to another man’s thoughts, who would not roam endlessly within them?”
-Scarlett Thomas, Chapter Five from The End of Mr. Y.
“ The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”

-H.P Lovecraft, Chapter one: ‘The horror in clay” from The Call of Cthulhu.

Snippet taken from an old dream blog I was keeping in 2014:

Train in post-apocalyptic world… We were waiting for its arrival (it was Northern Rail) at a crumbling, yet progressively greener platform. The moss and the overgrowth and the green climbing shrubs, were increasing, rapidly, since the decline of humanity (some sort of plague or massive war had caused this, not 100% sure).

The train emerged, eventually, through a Victorian looking red brick tunnel, to the left of where we were standing on our platform. The crowds waiting to rush onto the delayed train, of near resemblance of the manic platform surges of Dehra Dun, in India.

The train took a while to emerge from the tunnel, and we all became aware of the chanting of the driver and passengers who were already on board that train. Through open windows, the passengers utilised the benefits of the tunnel’s echo, and the intensity added to the chant, achieved through the sheer volume of participating chanters.

This, we somehow all understood, as we waited on that platform, was a new form of common courtesy born out of the circumstance and the ashes; unavoidable challenges of the ‘new world’, for which we had gradually been growing more and more capable to adapt and ‘keep calm and carry on’.

The chant; ‘Body, Body. Body, Body!’ grew sharper and bolder as the train drew near to the end of its censored tunnel. The warning of the boarded passengers, was a disclaimer- since communications in New World were out of action until the foreseeable future. Anyone who might be awaiting the train, and thus looking specifically for the front of it to emerge, needed the advance warning to avert their eyes.

The train had hit a person (suicide or not), and because of the lack of the luxuries previously taken for granted- such as the train been cleaned and cleared of the carcass before continuing its journey-(there was simply not enough people to fill such jobs, nor the time to carry them out, which would delay the trains further). Since everything was only partially able to function, or lost completely, the demand for any available transport for commuters and travellers, far outweighed the capacity to satisfy this void of forewarning.

So, the carcass of a man ‘who had jumped’, remained on the front of the train, smearing the traumatised driver’s window. People were being warned, by the only means possible (chanting to communicate), to avert their eyes and to expect the ghastly sight, thus allowing time for brief mental preparation-so as to avoid the shock and intensified trauma, brought by surprise and the unexpected.

The warning was especially significant to any guardians of children, who were awaiting this train on the platform. An appreciation which was silent and mutual, hummed in the atmosphere, as children were distracted from the sight oncoming. Protective hands moved to veil the children’s eyes, despite confusion and frustration of curiosity stilled.


The Confession Chamber

A hidden listener sits there, behind an opaque screen, for anonymity. It doesn’t really matter, where about in space and time, environmental context, churches or pretext, that this listener is situated. The point is, there is an ear, a receiver, and anyone can come to find them, and speak.

A man walks in, stumbling. He is by no means sober, but it’ll have to do, because when one’s spirit has been so low as his, for him, like many others, the alcoholic spirits are desperately recruited to take place.

When he reaches the chamber, the little confessional box, with its dark panelled innards, and it’s little wooden chair, he does not sit. Instead, he stretches his body diagonally, tips of his toes touching one side of the walls, his shoulders resting against the opposite side wall. It is a small box, he concedes, as his own height serves as the indicator for measurement, of its area.

He begins to talk.

“My interpretation of reality? Well. Both those terms are debatable to me. But you ever watch those movies where a vampire can’t see himself in the mirror? Because he’s a vampire? That’s how he knows he’s a vampire yeah? When there’s nothing there? So how does he know really when there’s nothing there? I bet he feels right sad about that. And I feel sad for him too. That’s best I can explain about me and all that.”

He later ‘confesses’: ” I have a mental illness. Do I look or sound stupid, to you, though?”

Another walk in, later on in the day. She too, needs to ‘confess’, and by that, we mean, she needs to talk. She needs to talk about her mental health, and she has exhausted all other known avenues for expression and communication, ‘distress flares’ in the form of asking professionals, friends, helplines, fellow sufferers, anyone, just for some advice, some help.

It was only a sad reality which answered her, in this particular case, which had indeed led to people willing to listen..

What had happened to her, when she had asked for help, felt like the exact opposite.  Details about her mental health crisis, had leaked into her workplace. It had turned into a matter of ‘chinese whispers’, and stigma was rife. Feeling ruined, it no longer felt like a matter of just ‘talking’, and asking for help, about mental health.

She’d been made to feel as though her mental health turmoil was something begging ‘confession’, rather than expression.

“Sorry is an inadequate word.” She began, resting on the little wooden chair, knees up, arms embracing her calves, dragging herself into a foetal position, in the chamber. “Totally inadequate. I know it is, but if sorry even represents a millionth of the truth then sorry trillions of times over. If I act, and I really end it, then I would never know how to express how sorry I really am, for those I would hurt. So sinfully, tortuously. I confess: I have become overwhelmed, so overwhelmed.”

Some other person might not have even gotten so far, as to reach the stage of articulation. The length of time people gone before, who, when faced with the unfamiliar and the stifling, lonely, lonely gagging order which smothers a mind, have gone without words.

‘FML’ was all he wrote, on his Facebook wall, seven years ago, before taking his own life- ‘fuck my life’- something people post to social media, or may blurt out as an impulsive, empty and one-off remark, usually in the heat of a moment which was never intended to last longer than the moment it slipped off the tongue. Longer than a hangover from a heavy night before, which can feel like forever at the time, but never really have to last a lifetime. Or end one, for that matter.

This is what I want to say to you

This is what I wish I could have said to you, to save you then, or to save you now…

Lash out
Preferably, not against yourself. I don’t care if you have to punch walls, smash plates, scream at the top of your lungs and/or run for your life. Physically do SOMETHING. Please don’t hurt others, but please make sure you engage in something physically relieving (or challenging), if it can stop you from the act of Suicide.

Dance it out
Again, humanity’s most loyal and beloved friend, music, comes into the play here. Listen to some rhythm, and then close your eyes, and let that rhythm lead your body into shapes and movements like it is a puppet, played by a sound.

For you, my lost friend, it was too late for such words. My hope is that for others, and that even for myself, these words previously left unspoken, can now find a voice, and be heard somehow, by anyone in need of urgent words, or better ‘ideas’, in future hours of need which may present themselves. So frighteningly, so dangerously, and so real. Just like they did for you, my gone but not forgotten friend.


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