Copied from my Notebook #4

-Do you trust those birds that barely ever land?

-What?

-You know, like sparrows or whatever, never land, just float around in upstreams.

-Gliders DO land.

-No birds, feathers.

-Nah, I don't trust them.

Copied from my Notebook #2

This is gently baking:

He tries to solve it and I just react to it -- tell me what the craic is and that will very quickly become the drake's bill, which is one pound and fifty pence madam -- I'm a man -- sir, sorry, sir.
"He's changed in the last few weeks, what we're going through -- he's thinking things -- do you mulch the grass still?"
Tell me what the craic is and I will try to to prevent its development into a fault line.

Copied from my Notebook #1

I am currently considering employment. The desirable location is London -- but there is the cost of living to sit with, not just that, but, the initial accreditation of work. The application form is formulaic. The repetition of name and address inspires pseudonym desires and represses neat handwriting.
I write from the top of a shopping tower, the cafe atop the Suburb Mall of Bristol. The cafe is a square dollop above the place. It is bordered by limply planted boxes and a roof covered in pebbles. The mineral water is gently sparkling, every patron is here is gently baking.

Purnell/Parnell

I am eating from a plate of slate, and in doing so I am accepting the Japanese and British elements of the dish. As soon as each element leaves the black surface, I embrace it. Here there is expense, yet, the expense is small figure to the tongue's taste buds. The eye's taste buds, they are a little closer to the head's City, but still they interrogate the colour on slate with minor knowledge of cost. Head burns smooth as it deregulates, and the burns are soothed by superb taste, tongue basting moments. Beautiful in opposition.

Scalper

Scalper is selling me a ticket again, he touts the ticket with his hands, and my leery ticket dirt is all over my money as I hand it to him. The scalper is the palpitation of live music, the dealer in humdrum heroin tunes and tight-sweet polo music. I leave Scalper behind and enter into the musician's performance space. He's added a 'y' at the end, but he's missed out the 'y' at the beginning and end. I'm sharded, but he's only the support act, bring on the real quiff. Major deal, Debussy appeal, get him off, Scalper, give me a refund. Scalper slips away, once sold, tickets are not refundable, neither are Ticketmaster's, neither are Quiff.com's.