I don’t know. It’s been a very strange week. Cold wet Scotland. Cold wet Scotland. Cold wet Scotland. Teaching. Cinema. Halloween. Her. I want to write so much, but it is so much that makes my head hurt. I’m not sure what was the point of the exercise, I’m not sure what her point of the exercise was, I’m not sure I have completed the exercise to a satisfactory level fulfilling the required criteria. Is life just one big tick sheet? Is life one big endless form to fill out? Who doesn’t know the subversive nature of relationships? If I am the bad guy, I know what my hell is though. Am I forever to be trapped inside a festival portaloo? I hope not, but it would make sense. With only toilet roll as my friend, blue coloured shit, and only an air vent as a spy hole to the outside. Where’s Jamaica? I’ve grown a beard, but I feel an urge to shave it all off again. Is life like growing a beard? One big futile exercise? Would Sisyphus have grown a beard because that is what we are condemned to do? Acceptance of the task, or a constant fight against nature. There is no life or death. All is illusion. From the first, man does not know where he comes from or where he is going. To say that you are born from your Mother’s womb and return to the earth is a biological explanation, but no one really knows what exists before birth or what kind of world is waiting after death. From the start, life is an excretion into suffering: We are born between Urine & Faeces.