I don’t always have the time to write a complete novel – it’s much easier to find the time to spit out a thousand words in the small spaces of time I have available to me.
For all but the most successful musicians, the life of playing music is a relatively precarious existence, based on keeping a string of jobs in progress.
This is all an hallucination. I am currently strapped in to a dentist’s chair, in my old neighbourhood, having hallucinogenic compounds drip-fed directly in to my eyeballs.
A small Swiss town, a river running through its centre: A green river through a red town. Fast and slow at once; ancient and modern.
The kitchen was well stocked, and I cooked us the first of what we hoped would be many meals in the peace and calm of our new-found bolt-hole. The larder had been stocked well, and we put any thoughts of cannibalism from our minds.
Kinetic pathways through the course of the evolutionary diet showed that our ascendency was of planetary need.
The Outpost is kind. Its benevolence shines like a beacon: a Beacon.