So it's 2.05AM Sunday 30th May 2004 and there's now less than a week to go. Surrounded by every increasing piles of discarded cardboard and plastic I stumble towards departure with an ever decreasing sense of reality. I remember once writing somewhere; "it never get's weird enough for me". I guess the words themselves don't mean much, it's what they're hotwired to, things words can't do by themselves, but it feels like I'm arriving at some kind of cut-off point, a point where it all comes down to throwing onself at the mercy of the elements, and trusting those that, one
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