So, to life. Or death... Or something... Christ I'm unsure.
Music speaks to me. Not in the typical conversationalist way in which most people are spoken to- 'hi, how are ya?- but on a different level. I detest being cheesy, but in this state of barely-conscious druken insomnia, music talks in a way no one ever could.
It makes sense, see. Today, I found myself in a grimy pool hall not once, but twice, drinking copious amounts of alchohol and generally acting the goat. Not a situation I ever thought I'd let myself get in. Fast forward to a few hours later I'm home, having obtained 10 or 11 msn adresses, two phone numbers and a scarf. All of which made no sense whatsoever. I can remember nothing of how they came into my possesion, nor the state of the donatees when they let them get there. It's so confusing.
Music, on the other hand, isn't. I can listen to Simon Neil talk about shins of steel ALL day and understand perfectly what he means. Not the literal meaning of course, of which I haven't a bull's notion, but it makes sense to me. That's what I mean when I say music speaks to me.
Christ what a day. I shall have to blog about today's events at some other point in the future. It'll be like a mystery novel, pieced together from lot's of people's accounts, many of which were just as- if you'll excuse the ineloquent slip for a moment- totally bollocksed as I was. It'll be an epic account, basically. And made up of predominantly lies. Fecking wonderful.
And on that tantalising note, I depart.
G'day mates,
S.xxx
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