I’m on a train, extremely hungry. Actually I’ll moderate
that down to slightly hungry. I just read a very brutal and very truthful
article in the New Internationalist about a women’s shelter in Afghanistan.
Perspective.
This was being written on a laptop grabbing impulse, as I
realised I can write whatever the fook I fancy about all the people in this
carriage without any of them ever finding out. I think I actually startled the
girl next to me (her felt coat looks like a blanket I would be suspicious of in
an ancient relative’s house HAHA she has no idea I think that) with my fervour,
but now I’m experiencing an anticlimax crisis, because I’ve realised it’s
perhaps not that fruitful to be systematically mean to everyone in Coach C,
even if they are all a bunch of fucktards, which they are not even. It’s just a
carriage full of human beings. What was I so excited about. Sigh. Life is just
a series of desaturations.
I can smell
cucumber and appel strudel.
I should never have started writing this.
