Spending the morning picking up bits of myself from around the house, pretty all over the place lately. Unreality's been on the march, periodically fading out, little bursts of static, rodents chewing through the wires.
Thinking about T's old rat, Kropotkin, good night, sweet prince.
What was that John Cale album I used to like listening to on long drives? Can't remember. I'll look it up. Music for a New Society, that's it. Contains such gems as:
The windows they were closed
And the midwives had locked their doors.
They didn't understand.
And after all what was there to understand?
But the angels, sheer choirs of angels,
In a friendship.
No, more than a friendship,
It was a marriage, a marriage made in the grave.
Lovely for pensive driving, love the choirs of angels bit, whenever they show up, I feel happy, like in that Erofeev book.