November 3rd, 2003


Kicking 'im Inna Kubals

The mind boggles. I've been smoking black tobacco cigarettes for hours now, looking out on a landscape so black as to be the dark side of the moon. Deforested, rocky, spilling way to clear cut swathes and cold deserts. It's a bleakness heavier and more profound then sprit or circumstance. It's as if the emptiness of being is made by the land itself, a numbing 'is'ness that fails to change as the miles slip past.

See, sitting in a track full of automatic rifles tends to make you maudlin.

Being shot at makes you very alert and interested in the minor details of life.

Yes, there is a story, children.

Out Of The Fry Pan, In To The Thermonuclear BlastCollapse )