And so here we begin again, the unproductive cycle, repeating on itself like the coiled garden snake. Right now, I should be reading something; Marx, probably; there are always a million and one better things to do. I would explain something breathtaking right now, but there's nothing to be said, or rather, there's no will to say it. Words are hard for me, they choke at the stomach, or even before that, where they form, coagulated, only to trickle out in an ephemeral pus. I get carried away in my images, and they envelop me.

Rishi has commented recently that I now seem 'perma-fried'; I disagree; I do, however, think that I may be a little off as far as the sanity department is concerned. I feel estranged, not in a Marxian way, but in an out-of-body-experience sort of way; perhaps I need to lay off on the recreational drugs or something.

Now it's official; I've lost my train of thought. Hello.