jim beam

a midnight snack of buttered toast . . . ah, but it's 5 in the morning.

who drinks more . . . artists or priests? the fucking fish and chip shops close at three . . .

a midnight snack of buttered toast. living in scotland has convinced me buttered toast constitutes a meal.

giant painting, tiny animation, ridiculous art parties . . . sandwiched between millionaires and famous artists, talking about the weather, talking about wine, talking about ANYTHING BUT ART. take a hip-hop producer and trap him in a basement courtyard. fire exit? only if you prefer to burn alive while watching the clouds move overhead. scale a wall, climb two fences, run back to the party with a half-bottle of cheap red wine.

smoked two cigarettes tonight. how foul! how uncouth, how repulsive! drank too much. again?! again!? think about pushing double racks into giant ovens, judging when the croissants are proofed but not overproofed, apply enough eggwash, bake for the exact right amount of time, dust with a fine coating of powdered sugar, pack them in boxes efficiently but not too tightly, stay a bit late and run off for a rendezvous with the . . . coworker? lover? friend? accomplice . . . ?

none of that here, all serious art and serious theory, cold nights and empty beds, do it right and dress to impress, remember your audience, chat up the boys but to no constructive end . . . are you winding me up? are you taking the piss?

I loved him. but it was never meant to be.
goodnight.