Booooored now.

Repetition, man. It rubs you raw eventually. Even the lightest caress, repeated for too long, will begin to chafe.

Got stuck in normal human consciousness all this week. Felt weird, grey, nasty. Linear, linear, linear. Hard to think outside the box; the box is everything, the box is me. Starting to pull out of it now, thanks be to [insert deity/angel/superhero/forgotten servitor grown fat on your obliviousness]. Sick of the same old minds in the same old grooves, the same old songs: We've shiny-new, you're old hat/we're wise and mature, you're young, dumb and full of spearmint gum. Shouldn't let it make even the smallest blip on the radar, but some people should know by now: when you slag off a set of people that includes me, you slag me, yeah? You get that, yeah? You get that you didn't give me or anyone like me a magickal Slagging Exemption Chitty before you went off into your latest hissyfit? And incidentally, could you please make up a new song? All I'm getting from you are remixes, and the tune wasn't that great in the first place.

So, having got over the sickies enough to take an interest in the world once more, it's off to look for inspiration. No inspiration. Not even a little bit. The Dalek squawk-- "IM-IT-ATE! IM-IT-ATE!" resounds louder and louder. People aren't even looking outside themselves for stuff to rip off anymore, they're just looking at their old shit and regurgitating it, a copy of a copy of a copy, dwindling and losing colour with every iteration, until all that's left is a blank surface onto which all those vacuous minds can broadcast the one thing they really want to see: Their own faces, staring back, love in their eyes. Narcissus, kiss your clone.

(I'm finding text a little awkward today. I need something else, something where I can branch and extend without losing cohesion. A 3-D wordprocessor.)