In Vienna we sit in a late-night cafe; straight connection, tea. For me the taste of the water is subservient to its sterility, and for this reason I prefer water which has been boiled several times, indeed I tend to boil the water, let it cool for a while, and then boil it again. Any pleasure I might get from the complex taste of virgin water would be outweighed by the pleasure I get from knowing that the water I am drinking is dead, dead, dead. Hydrogen and oxygen and bits of dead rock and nothing else.

To a certain extent this is futile, because the teabag and the milk are full of germs, indeed milk is itself a germ - and as a digression, I find it queasier to think about where milk comes from than to think about where hamburgers come from; it disgusts me less to imagine cow flesh being roasted than to imagine drinking the unprocessed lactations of the same cow - but I also accept that human beings such as myself are not rational, indeed that rationality is impossible in the organic domain, and I don't worry about it.

Perhaps this also explains my fascination with alcoholic spirits, as they are sterile as well; at least, I imagine them in my mind to be sterile. But then again it worries me to think that creatures live at the bottom of the ocean, in the shadow of subaquatic volcanoes, and the temperature there might be over 100oC and yet they thrive; it is fortunate that these creatures are thousands of miles away beneath a mile or more of water.

I don't know whether this fetish for sterility is a reaction to my own filthiness or to the dirt of others. I suspect the latter, for the former grows gradually over a period of time after I have bathed, and is thus less noticeable. If I were to take a holiday from myself, or to become unconscious and to then wake in a hall of mirrors, perhaps I would be cured, or my condition would be worsened, insofar as there is something wrong with me; there might not, I might actually be onto something real and vital.

The heaviness of a new age weighs on my shoulders /
as if my breasts were boulders /
dumpy trousers /