I'm not sure which is likely to be printed and bound first, my PhD or my microwave cookbook (provisionally entitled 'What Not to Microwave' but more obscurely known as 'How to Not Blow Up Your Tame Oats')

and giving myself the deficit of every doubt... not only am i just something dreamed up by a butterfly, but i'm not even one of the bits it remembers in the morning.
alone again, naturally, but failing to develop a corresponding philosophy (solipsism perhaps?)

the bright hallucination that was sydney's flying trip

and ireland, and my mother, and the night in Derrynane, literally having the stained tablecloth of life swiped from under me and the identity theft of having the last remaining (always-already imperfect) illusions you have broken open and crapped on in the foulest and most horrific terms so you don't even cry you just sort of fail to respond soundproofed within yourself a swimming sickbag filled with someone else's vomit diorrhaeic rubbish understanding really truly now if only in a narrow familial sense that thought of Quentin's in absalom: I have had to listen too long.

On my way to you

The early morning frost, cow, sun
Sidesun
Hot on this train
Shot like a bullet chameleon’s tongue
Fulla mixed blood
To hit the spot: King’s X
The change
For Heathrow airport.