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Mic Czech... if my bottle of Pilsner Urquell is chilled. Why do you need Mike to check your beer? He's not a servant. Do it yourself you workshy fop. Sly old fox, channel propaganda, no answer to the unstoppable cancer of manservants plaguing Modern Day Société. I should change my name to Sir Lancelot and take drugs a lot, before I prance around in Prada underwear and climb the Eiffel Tower like James Kingston in France. This is my Kingdom, the opposite doesn't bear thinking about. Neither does the thought of copulating with the barely-legal grizzly. Now its rolling up Zig Zag and Rizlas, what kind of twisted chain-smoking bear is this?! Tis mystifying like flying a plane through misty weather. Hurricane Doris, not a day to scurry along cranes with a Go Pro. NO NO! Not even Boris Johnson would be that crazy! You should pay notice to the harsh weather warnings, stay at home where its warm, watch porn, make your own recordings if you feel that bored. Just don't eat 85% cocoa Green and Black's. I'd rather eat 90% Madagascan semen. Get scars from Nascar because I was driving my car too fast and listening to Nas. Drinking in the Kasbah, like a black sheep, feel drunk, I lack sleep and have stars whizzing around my head. "Shouldn't have got out of bed," they said. But who are they to judge, those made up voices in my head that I employ and pay to tell me that I wish I was dead. But I'm not finished yet, not through when I have so many fiendish plots and squeamish blogs to do, I have to seize this opportunity. We shall not surcease, certainly not, for we are Hercules. Hiscules... theircules. Ourcules. Invincible until I succumb to heart disease. Or suck out cum from a Madagascan park lot guard's hard throbbing boner. I Joke I Joke, I Keed I Keed! I keyed the wrong line Mrs Marian Keyes! She would appreciate my sense of human, for she was clinically depressed herself. For me the clinics are calling but I remain cynical that clinicians can restore me to full health. I use depression at my own discretion to create progression. Writing is therapeutic, it lessens the burden, while teaching me a lesson and helping me to understand myself more as a person. It works under the circumstances and helps me to understand this constant hurting and nagging pain, an aspirin of avant-garde, tannin brain. Agony examined, scrutinised, imagined. Mind of a maniac unravelling, channeling pain, shun the tablets, run to Taplow without an atlas. Take a Go Pro. YES YES! Sounds a good way to deal with stress when the pressure mounts up. Nothing more pleasurable than fresh air to reduce distress. A shibboleth searching for those alike as I hike alone walking miles at times in silence. Whilom. Headphones in ears, distracted, fearless, reflective conscientious objectives, pondering in my despondency, constantly a subconscious, contemplating. Concentration. Hate conciliated, as I watch a world around me and wait for reconciliation. A therapeutic hard-on in le jardin of Versailles. Happy man in the Trenches of Marianne. Extend a hand of friendship, don't need to attend Oxford or Cambridge to become educated. For it is the same bridge we all cross from life to death. No need for these gated communities that only serve to divide and not unify the herds of all humans alike seeking out equal opportunities. We need a shift, to balance out, and EQ, we don't need to be too greedy or self-absorbed. That's how the self gets warped enough to be led out to warzones, where people are forced out of their own homes. Displaced by military men, disgraceful, silly, unforgivable. All under the pull of invisible forces, hidden away, underground in invincible fortresses. Watered down policies from political sources reinforced by the media to be lapped up by media whores who don't see the forgery, illusions and sorcery, we need to take heed of these cautionary tales and start thinking more forwardly.