Blogging. If for no real purpose, surely a painful self tribute, a self-appreciative elitist personal bum-fuck. Yet here I sit, at the bottom of some full hypocrytical spiral, blogging as if this means something. There is no real purpose. A diary? No, I can write. A journal of my travels? Perhaps as a pretext. Does this sound pretentious?
Definitely.
Hopefully no-one has to read this ever. Though the above and its existence proves the continuing utter hypocrisy of this writer and as such I will surely have told SOMEONE within the week (day?). Sorry, someone.
Medipatnam awaits. It is 21:52 here. They never come.
Bats fly. I tried to take a photo. This happened:
Fuck.
Accrington. Morecombe anyone? 1-3. Please not.
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