Here we are now all over again. This is the point. This is the point at where everything comes crushing down from above and smulches. Us. Us into nerdy little dirt birds, and us into ickle damp squibs. It’s grey, all of it grey, and it’s contagious. The machine has come a-crumpling, and we’re all scrambled eggs. You can taste it in your porridge. You can read it in your lover’s eyes. You can tell it by the way a certain sailboat creaks. Something’s off.

This may come as no great revelation to You Who Know, but the average brain-peddler is in need of edification! We need deceiving pie-charts! the carefully-worded chants! (accented so as to jig the numbed mind into a state of heightened awareness), and of course, glorious manifestos, authored by some Mask-less Avenger: He who streaks through streets, from alley to alley, in an audacious display of buffoonery, and panache.

There will no doubt come a day when we have scientific instruments tuned to the nuances of invisible violence, but for now, we must live on our wits. Indeed, we should be working at the tuning of our very own inner-receivers right this minute. Folly that we must revert to the ways of the ancients in order to overcome the technological megaliths of today, (or so it may seem to you)! There are those of course who will stand in line at the earliest available opportunity to hook themselves up to some user-friendly super-computer, casually dropping the luggage of their own free will in the process, as if it was ever theirs to begin with. “Myra, simulate space flight.” “Myra, activate footbath.” “Myra, grant carnal knowledge of Barbara Windsor.” A half an hour well spent. “Myra, present opt-out button.” “I’m sorry, User61795zb, you should have read the License Agreement. Now initiating suicide sequence.”

Now what is all this? These words. Eh? The incoherent ravings of a madman? Most certainly. And a proud one at that. It’s not every Jim, Joe, or Gerry who can claim to have lost their mind several times over and lived to tell the tale. And isn’t it a tale worth telling. But! For another day. There are sandwiches to be ate. Eaten. And they’ll not eat themselves. Bonsoir!

P.s That sailboat. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that gladdens your heart each time you pass it, a new pattern rusted with the rising of every tide. It bobs… bobs…. bobs. “Squeak!” “Hello.” “Sque-eaak!”