Voices echo in my head without precedent, without antecedent, residual background radiation left over from the Big Bang, thoughts and ideas bouncing like ping pong balls in a mind too full for thinking, a brain too drunk for drinking. Quit re-normalizing equations. Maybe mass IS infinite at the speed of light. Meaningless infinities my ass; maybe more physicists should get more metafizzical. I’m pregnant with ideas, ready to give birth. Those who can’t create, consult; those who can’t shine, reflect. Radio waves are the enemy, jamming somebody else’s thoughts into my brain. TV will live your life for you if you let it. Now Internet wants to do the same or worse, creating a life of its own within the limits of conspiracy. Still I persevere. Prepare for the best; avoid the worst. Fear of success is the greatest handicap of the sensitive male. How do you score points when your best offense is a good defense? Beyond the call of the sexual wild, the call to merge with the void, beyond the sleepy call of nature two or three times a day depending on circumstances, my world is finally at peace with itself.
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the cheaper the better, full of character and characters. Nobody wants to see the inside of a Westin or a Hilton, except maybe Paris. They want to see the crud in the cracks and the stains on the sheets, lives of the cheap and dirty. I know those rooms inside and out, the chewing gum under the table and the burnt spots where a cigarette butt hung on the edge of the night stand for dear life, despite the warnings not to smoke in bed. They have to tell you that, in the cheap places. In expensive hotels, it’s understood. Actually the only thing wrong with the cheap places is the people who inhabit them, all too often on a permanent basis, too self-satisfied in their grungy life-style. I never stay at the cheapest places just for that reason, though sometimes they’ve got real style. Sometimes just a few bucks more a night is enough to keep the riffraff away and provide a qualitative difference, too, though. It’s not that I don’t like poor people, but generally not the type living in cheap motels. They can be real low-breeds, regardless of how high-bred, like heroin addicts watching the pile of pubes just growing higher in the corner if left undisturbed by human hands.
language rights go to the majority, all things being equal. Nothing is equal. Language follows the path of least resistance, at least theoretically. Like animals evolving smaller as the world fills with species and the competition gets fierce, so words reserve their options until the last possible moment, eschewing bound forms and forced marriages. The occupiers usually take the language of the occupied, all the better to force their hands, unless they’re also part of a local migration, which will make them the majority of the populace, or unless the local language is just too damn hard. Such is the case with Thailand, where a Farang would never be expected to speak the local language, maybe not even allowed to. This is all voluntary, of course, the tyranny of the majority, dreadful freedom. Society is united by its lowest common denominators, the greatest good for the greatest number, and the rare birds are left to flounder in brittle cages, taking solace in mirrors and nourishment from crumbs on the floor. It’s cold in here and somebody keeps shitting in the nest. Shine some light in dark corners and let some fresh air into musty corners.