Weighs Like Stone, Feels Like Shit

seven kilos of electronic jelly walking round in seventy kilos of blood and tubes and bone and hair numbering seven billion and yet here we are. only four hundred films get made a year. perhaps another hundred times that with books and a million times that for music. the last total number representing culture yet of what percentile of humanity are involved in the making of it? and what further percentile of it is any good? ideas. What's worth recording in any manner? By thinking about something you aren't necessarily fully enjoying it's actuality.

Monks in solitude delicately piecing together codices, whispering to themselves in Latin. A child watches a re-enactment of this in the next millenium, laughing and squirting virtual shit across the universe like some primordial gull. Allergies. Fat wrists. Delicateness. Nose bleeds. Cataracts. Baldness. All by the age of ten.

Another twenty million dollars is thrown in the face of an actor as he sits naked in bed surrounded by prostitutes, all are tanned and have perfect sets of filed down teeth. A phone rings. It's a studio executive pitching a t.v series set in the past. The actor accepts, his laughter almost blows the cocaine away as it's rubbed in his face via arse. The finest white wine in California is opened and all settle down to watch a blu-ray. Ninety minutes pass. And nothing has changed.