Policing the only distiguished screen between coffee shop of universal furniture and behind screen authority business,though man walks through it who wears jeans and suit jacket and vaguely homosexual high street mother-teasers. he wouldn't do anything wrong even if he could. man in middle of circular toy train track doing serious electrician job on his knees- killing floor- with 2 elders starting on appreciatively and mindless of his job description. the announcements over the music bring a tear to my oozing infected eyes.
Celebrating the 55th Anniversary first flight from our history terminal.
What is this for? Watercolours look. And as i spit into the heavily stained box of mud chunks the guards almost jump backwards and i felt them groping their guns. Only a demonstration on one of my pencil drawings was sufficient to get them off my back but only led to my anger at ruining a perfectly satisfactory work for these people's ease. They are comforted cold blooded functioners by whatever small tonal ranges come from music telling you about taking your girl on a shopping spree on the streets far from here. Nothing new in the queue. "i've got the postcode of my office Katie Twenty Two Seminal Y." Numbers he spoke into his mouthpiece were 64 and 54. Asked for replacement function. Back in office tomorrow. Is there a branch in leatherhead still he asked his mates simply. There's no one there at the moment I'm being looked at with what i construe to be suspicion by his well trimmed office boxers.
Rollerskating girls passed 2 blonds, wearing two brand t-shirts- unrecognised joblets. They can't be serious seriously- isn't in their programming. Anonymously they roll out permutations of crushes and promotions and lifts home. But i dream of the mental juices inside them both; of some truely deepreaching gossip; of one of those who-gives-a-flying-fuck jobs where they actually manage to mutually screw their bosses over somehow.
Anonymity among insecure national identities. No history which is itself a cause of this prolonged staring match can talk anymore. "A bit of a shrapnel head". I mistook an emporio mannequin for a poor man working. Went in to price check inflated waterbotz. Different boundaries i almost forgotz. Staff stick out cos of unbelievable stench in uniformout. Stick together and chat. Walk accidentally into open private cash area. Funny looks. Scat act- only path to innocence- or sex act. Show slavishness to their positions. Seems to be almost police station in number of policedoors and comfortable manner of patrol connotes local shop protection racket over any feelings of international air law. In the perfumery itslef the stereo is off or broken- lone staff kneels down below counter whistling the same 5 note jinle over and over in frontless show of customers.
Chronos: Save Love Production.
No going back now. Non one has X-rayed my baggage. If i vomit here various isolating factors will come into play (the boyish police psychic seemed at me knowingly as i thought about it):
-Inspection of vomit- looking for unusual PH levels with his dipstick from his handy belt pouch.
-Seizure of notebook- evidence. Precise description of its purpose. Ident Stamp- idea store id.
-Fforced fill-in of incident report form to explain reasoning behind happening before check-in glass.
At the moving belt i accidentally flung an important tissue over into the official Xray zone,
"in yiur bathroom sir? how many am i competing with? as i said i am confident- we can make a new business model...i'vev been selling pl_?_ for over twenty years...i've bitten off all my fingernails..."
O.K Dick is bad here. And so are the crap poets that use the O.K Space Tool. Too much of the same, common interests. Might be a talking point to sway me through to the classical zone. I can't picture the outside anymore. It's dark reflections only show me and the moving colour people up. Total submission. Maybe i could use a fake knowledge excerpted rightless orchestral overtures to threaten them with copyright infringement. I know a few names to bargain with and i can count on them never having noticed music at work here or having foreseen any cultural insecurity arise. Social law and nothing else is between me and my being lynched by the onlookers. Saddeningly, the medium of restraint hovering above us, fostering bland domed thoughts, is the message. And it is this restraint -and desperate distraction through anything warped like the fish in pedicures- which is my seperation from them, brothers, dripping saps of my life and blood.
Again, maybe i could show them my most benign example of draughtsmanship as a sign of my humble service to the illusion- this unbelievably uncontrollable web of value-?
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