12th September 2002 ~

1st September 2002. The DPS woz late updating coz - the stupifying heat; flatmate hunting (Man About The House); a motorcycle crash killing an old friend; another's abortion; time and a quick look back into the ever-inspirational love pools of London. It's an exchange out there - and if you expect a fixed-rate of x to return a high yield off your y, get it in writing straight away. And never ally with someone more powerful than you, even if you win you're still imprisoned by a need for the allegiance. Hang on, that's war. Whatever - back in the Anne Frank Suite. ~ So many couples seem to subtract from one another anyway, don't you find, DPS? Never as interesting as the erstwhile individuals, they practically lean on one another like crutches, swapping outré in-jokes and pet names as they meander Ikea Drive towards Cemetery Hill via Brat Street in the most pitiful fashion. You don't need pedestrian, common pleasures such as that, dear boy. Buy a portrait-daubing chimpanzee called Dorian for the Anne Frank Suite, DPS. Do it. DO IT. "Why Dorian, that's perfectly exquisite." "Ooo Ooo!"" Am I really so handsome?" "Ooo." "Another sugarlump in your absinthe?" "Go on then." ~ A lengthier piece, second draft - mirroring a previous chapter and heavier on action. Half a bunch to go then dunno. Still doubly rough after The Kills at a boat party.

1st August 2002. Serious chapter. In a sense. Hope you're keeping up. ~ nothings simple ~ The last two words of a text message I just received. Long story, I guess. But first, here's some on-the-edge net 'content', freeform gonzo no-school poetry. Gutteral. Wild as a misplaced sigh. Or the worldwide chant of a generation out to find new literary warpaths. Check this little stanza. Then taste the sound of your eyeballs going half mad, man: "North London. Bright room. Recently modernised. Close to the Northern Line Zone 2, buses, pubs and restaurants. 30 minutes to the West End. Share with two. Available at the end of August. Mail for further details."