...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
carpet shop? I am there now, though strangely it is if
am still in East London: the conversations don’t seem to
differ so much, which I can’t complain of because it is
just a little impractical to practice such self- hate.
Marxist revolutions! Lazy fuckers. These are my
people, regardless of the way in which the search to rid
our lives of cliche is ́ itself a strange cliche. Or it has its
own laws and I am just not able to disdain the lives
that many of the people I love choose to live. As you
know you meet nice people, twisted motherfuckers, you
meet true Anarchists too, which I live for. A girl I live
with (a Spanish girl) is a prime example of someone I
appreciate. You need to meet her, I have talked about
you and you are part of the soap bubble. I think she is
feigning mental illness, as if it is something to feign.
Because two nights ago when I was coming back from
Clive’s place in Hackney (he’s still with Charlotte, even
though she cheated again) I got back inside the house
and walked up the stairs, where she is at the top of the
stairs shaving off all her hair. It was down to her
bottom, really long brownish blonde hair. I was
engrossed you know? Just watching her do this, it was
more exciting than anything. It reminded me of a
Daniil Kharms story, so absurd, as why did she only
start to do this as I was walking up the stairs? Why
didn’t she have this panic attack alone? I am no
coward so I would say something to her but I really just
enjoy watching, a bit like you, in a way. I acquired
that skill from you; the way you people-watch is more
animated than the best films. You put the ridiculous
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