A distinct lack of tuition fees is about the only thing that makes my second choice of university an attractive prospect. Otherwise I see little reason for me to go there. Other than the fact it's in London. And, as we all know, I've gots to get me living there in September. Why so? Well, not too sure on that count... The plan, at present, is for me to move in with Jenny and two of her friends. And this is a good plan, for Jenny is a good friend. But is it reason enough? Travel costs aren't an issue; £55 (aprx.) a month for a student travel card. And travel time is no more than I'm used to with school. I'll be living with good people (I hope), a gay old time will be had, and all will be well. Hmm. A deep sense of unease on my part is clawing at the door. I should answer it before I leave.

Pay attention dagnammit! Alex Ross is not Alec Ross. Alec Ross is a dope-fiend at our school. Alex Ross is highly skilled artist whose work I admire a lot. Those sketches that I sent out a few days ago were inspired by the artist, not the dope fiend.

When you fall asleep whilst listening to an album, but only half asleep, and you imagine your own lyrics... your own song about the Roman Empire sprawls behind you, but then you claw yourself back to reality and the Roman Empire dies, Feeder fades back up & you go to sleep. When you're sitting in a chair and you're asleep, but you hear your name... You push aside the bead curtains of orange and sound fades back up and you respond 'Yes'. When you're writing and falling asleep at the same time and you can't remember writing the words you read when you wake up a half hour later. When you forget things that happen because you weren't even aware when you did them. When you're not sure what's dream and what's real anymore. When you can't even do what you know you need to. When fear paralyses you and you fall back on auto-pilot. When you hold a plank of wood, with a nail through it, in your right hand, you go to smack a friend 'round the head, and suddenly your hand is empty. And you realise it's your left hand that held it but now it's nothing left but a vase of gold-fish. And the vase spreads to the rest of you, turning you into glass. And the gold-fish swim through the rest of you, round your arms and legs and body. Up into your brain, paralysing you with dreams that dissolve in seconds from their conception, leaving you sad but you don't know why. So you fuck your VCR, hope that Bob won't notice, and walk slowly to your room. You turn your back on the sun, plod slowly off into fear and desperation. And you go back but the sun's gone. And the glass shivers and the goldfish float belly-up. And bile rises in your throat whenever you remember what went past. And you want to rip their throats out. And free a lot of memory. And you shiver more and the glass splinters spread and grow and blossom, and sand falls in multi-coloured piles. You start a sentence anew. Gnaw on your knuckles, tearing flesh from bone, smearing your face with blood, waiting to wake up. The first rule of Monopoly is; you will not talk about Monopoly. The second rule of Monopoly is; you will not talk about Monopoly. And the rest can cover growing meatloaf on ostrich farms. Cover sheep in clingfilm so as to stop dust falling.

Don't fuck things up, man.
Don't fuck things up like you know you can.
Don't fuck things up or I'll beat the living shit out of you. Spiro Agnew was never Popeye's friend. Don't think he was. Brutus was more a friend to Popeye than Agnew ever was. I think.

Squeezing octopuses is not an olympic sport. Only a vicious dope-fiend would ever think it was. Them and wolverines, shaved down to mohawks with cocaine ground into their tear-ducts. Their left eyes watering constantly, leading to a state of crazed ferocity, tearing all before them limb from limb. The smell of stale-sweat and sheep-dust doing nothing to alleviate the situation.

It was a cool afternoon, extremely sunny but windy as well. Centaurs fleeted back and forth. He reached out and picked one up by its hair. The little thing laughed with glee as he chewed on its legs. One final crunch and it was gone for good, masticated beyond repair.

Ah, what am I doing? Is the lack of sleep getting to me at last? Has the constantly brutal strain I've been subjecting my body to for the last few months finally begun to pay off? I hope so. I'm no longer what I was, and a body on the verge of collapse is a fine thing to maintain. It requires commitment and courage on the part of the host (me). You have to ignore the incessant call for 'Sleep! Sleep! Oh please sir, let me sleep!'
You've got to learn to ignore what your body tells you. You've got to learn to take charge.
'Eh, want to sleep, eh?'
'Yes sir, please sir.'
'Hah! Screw you! I'm gonna stay awake for another 12 hours just to piss you off!'
And so on. The body fails, the mind begins to unhinge, and you try to remember why you started this whole crazy business in the first place. What was it all about? Did you ever know? Why won't they leave you alone? Why do those fucking Manta Rays have to haunt me wherever I go?!!! All I want is some peace and quiet... But their constant flapping!! It's enough to drive a sane man mad.

When you see manta rays in the sky above your house you have to rethink your whole strategy. Is the plan gonna work out for you? Or was it doomed from the outset? These ugly questions prey on the mind a lot after an attack on the soul by those devilish manta rays...

And all I ever wanted was a