A rebel without a clue.

Car rentals, cartwheels of joy, a La carte rentals, magna carta. Take your seat 19C. Shoving adverts up your arse Ryanboar. Beware of the flight that needs to drop these empty bombs. Yet carries them all the way there, under such strain, but it is gone. The minds clouds are gone. The sky is clear. Here I am - Montpellier Airport. Now to head east! Let's see how long before I come unstuck? A bière, pan and then stop. It took two hours and five lifts to reach Arles. As I stood waiting I didn't fear. This is the Camague I thought. Tomorrow I will walk through here. Yippee. I will walk across the Rhône, bare faced. I know a switch is on. It is babble but it is distant. Away

The indicator on the bus is stable; no attack. The cardiac pulse without variation; without theme. Traveling higher into the blanket of air; another sonumbulance placed upon minds who wait to wake up dead. Take me away. Leaving the decapitated, dying and dead is my only reason. The rest is a restricting plague lesion. A passionless poison engineering. Spores invade everywhere and it becomes a mad dash to find stillness. Those who can be mindful when all is insane around them are enlightened indeed. Fucking hen and stag parties. Leeds have you nothing left inside the mind except this struggle with the damned and undead. All noise. Where is the chapel of ease Airside? Give me Truth where I can see, hear and sense distance. It is so loud that I must swear, pack away my muesli and find another area further from the violent death. The concentrated forces at work in the departure areas of an airport rip the very fabric of being apart. Banging drums, cheering sluts (you hope to marry this...

Post Apocalyptic Wetherby, on a Thursday, where teeth and eyes are reduced to glimmers. The pearls that shone are now oil smeared, leaden, musket shot which absorbs light but gives no reference. At 1017 the bus detours with me ensconced above grey haired ammonia's; bag grasping, breath gasping, lost, possessed, forgotten, forgetting, post being, past. Get me passed this blind-spot. Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, nothing left for you to do but "run, run, run". We gather persons like the ever falling dust which has been poisoning us since coal was burnt by galley slaves to export cloth and beyond those fateful days in 1945.

Must fly; Hemmed in; to the North by Benfield Fords' destruction and South, along Braine Road, Northern Gas replacing 1950s utilities; insanity. The morning noise is deafening. Utterly defeated! Listening to Miles Davis isn't possible between drills and digger, fag smokers and the overwhelmingly smell of gas. Hastily packed - judging this much I will need. But what needs - more default notices, more arrears? Trussed up my ankles with climbing tape and step out of 42. A rapid fire photo of number 41, for photographic proofs of before and after for Adrian, and another journey begins. Much lighter than Nidderdale - sans tent. Give us back the silence of the grave, but can we ever get it back? Paradise is surely lost. We've opened the box, removed the contentedness and found spare parts; more left over than were in that box originally; the 10,000 things.