Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Thobut it came to pass that the Rev. Dr. got blown out of the arse of the (named) Royal Terrace Hotel in redundant Night Manager mode but undigested by acidic fluids. Verily the next day he laffeth and danceth upon the sunlit streets of the glorious Scottish capitol, glorifying it all with Katy aqualung blaring 29.3.88 (which you will hear, eventually) into the very ears of himself attached to this head they tried to fuck with but did not, because of his will which prevaileth upon this very Rev. Dr. of Nothing. Thee very Nothingness which is not widely known but to be "EVERYTHING" (shout it out loud), as I share with you now being both inside and outside as far as it goes, which is further than anyone can ever imagine. As above, so below. Alas no images of Mr. Rs' are here but the ones dancing in my whisky head. I thank you. We pause to sober-up and continue, trying not to worry about where the money is going to come from or where I am going to live, having lost my home along with the job in a seperate way. Cheers me dears.