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Monday, 8 September 2008

Dose Blues

There's nothing like a cold to whisper intimations of mortality. Call me a hypochondriac for sure, but at times like these a black hole swallowing solar systems, galaxies and bloody useless viruses seems a real winning idea. Does the promised new heavens and new earth and restoration of all things so beloved of biblical authors and J├╝rgen Moltmann include the resurrection of these bloody little things that crawl into unsuspecting available orifices and imbalance human existence?

Okay, so there's always someone worse off. Yeah right. So I care? Through a fog of schnozz and pressure on my eyeball that makes me feel like Mad-Eyed Moodie with a hangover I wonder if I really want to know. I bet Picasso really had a cold when he vomited Guernica onto canvas - it has nothing to do with Hiroshima. Or whatever.

So I think I should go out and blow up the universe, or something. But I haven't got the energy.

Blimey. Here's hoping The Creator never gets a cold.

Someone pour me a whisky.
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