Flowers by the roadside.

Crawling into bed at 18:20 because there is nothing else I feel like doing in the flat, after I ate dinner, put my dry clothes and drying rack away, washed and dried the pots, utensils and cutlery.

Picked up two bags of Main Crop potatoes to get into the ground shortly - Desirée and Maris Pipers - from Wilko's around four and negotiated the meaninglessness on the streets between Albion Street and Lovell Park.

Sirens outside the flat, tailbacks along Lincoln Green Road, etc, a sullen grey sky and noise from the inhabitants around me and from the dicky lift. It's possible to get used to anything? At 18:30 I am going to meditate...

... I don't feel lonely lied on my own listening to the noises around the flat, and I never feel alone when I am walking in the countryside. Yesterday the singing of birds (and now they start to permeate and interject with the motor vehicle drone) and the bright roadside blooms made me joyous.

***

To live too long makes us forget the meaning of mortality. It takes away and removes experience of mortality. The breakage of life. Life can be sterile as we circle about death. Death is nothing: it is becoming nothingness. From existence and experience is nothing. But does it go somewhere, perhaps into a collective memory; a universe memory; the universe learning to be human while evolving into the next state of existence? So does it indeed matter, in that case, what we all do as it 'uploads' into some mammoth memory? It is therefore important I do what I do well, not the stuff I do which is self destructive?

***

Last night I slept well. And I don't remember many dreams. One I do recall was going to a new years Eve party miles from anywhere, I knew I would have to walk back through the snow after the event, where I was the pauper; I'd misplaced my false teeth and had only half shaved my face. It was like being surrounded by aristocrats, and I really couldn't afford the meal etc.

***