(part of my ongoing experiments into sleep deprivation, which I find unlocks the regulator on my mind and causes it to race)

... that kind of liberal self-hate seems to stem from a subconscious belief in one's own superiority and invincibility. It's the same as those conspiracy theorists in the 1990s, in that their belief required that the Establishment was in total control of everything, which it was and is not. No-one is in control. No-anyone or everyone in a pretty how town is in control. In fact, there is no control. There is no controller, and nothing to control, and no process of controlling, the three elements of a system, the object, the subject, the process. Always there are three. Hypothesis, antithesis, apprentice. That is my other driving force for today, this moment and the moments to come, the infinity of moments. The world is just irregular motion over land, there is nothing else. Living creatures are objects the move randomly. There is no global system of controlling this. I can move my arms independently of the Carlyle Group.

My three mottoes for The Today, therefore, are 'rape the roach' and 'there is no control', and also 'plug the pig'. I will continue to uphold these points of view until midnight, when they come to turn me back to the blue remembered horizon, and then I will be risen, my mind to take up all available space, flowing with the others, the concrete tubes all filled. We will all rise, each of us, like yeast, rising in the oven, in the light of the SunisGod. It would take a twitch, a sneeze, and the city would be torn from the subterranean organ and the pillars would be splintered, free then to move across the earth, leaving behind a pit of roaches. Blessed are the sneezemakers. Our salute to the power of human potential should be the sneeze. Do not put your hand in front of your mouth. Bless your fellow men with the gift of sputum. It is yours to give.

For this reason the establishment fears dust and pollen, which is why it is driven to destroy nature and replace the atomic with the substantial. Smooth surfaces are the enemy of the meatway. The crossways grid traps the dirt and sand and channels it away from the action, the cuts in the receiver added to the British SLR for the desert did not, nonetheless, make the weapon suitable for the promised land.

buzzing. It's not the tiredness, as such; I'm still young and I can keep it up with small naps, and soldiers punctuate their lack of sleep with actions of experiences that are much more traumatic than mine. The limiting factor is my skin, which becomes itchy, and it feels wrong, and greasy when I do not sleep. When I see a photograph of an F-14 Tomcat with half its wing broken off I feel for the aircraft, because I anthropomorphise technology, I relate more to it than I do to people. I feel sorry for the bird, the aeroplane. World war three would have been a tragedy to see those aircraft being shot down from the sky, just so callous thank God.

Our enemy is the mirror, the anti-nature. It gives us self, and isolates us from the organelectrogravitic sea of Is. In the human future of my ideal mindworld, light will not reflect. It will be absorbed and we will again be part of the whole, and we will be. Do not spurn the ray. It is the shaft of God. It is the hand of God. God's hands do not grasp, because nothing grasps; you cannot hold onto something without expressing the tragedy of losing contact, for there was an infinity before you held, and there will be an infinity after you hold. Your love will be over, but the ray of God will beam through the universe forever, and you will not be part of it.

What if it turns out that skin is a parasitic animal feeding on people, and our natural state is to be without skin, to be red muscle and blood vessels and tissue and bone, open to the elements? (the first break occurs here)

...the Goodyear blimp, which is in itself mankind's mockery of a cockroach, for it does not spread its wings, it does not split itself open, ripped open like a banana, yet it flies! It flies without resorting to self-mutilation, and nature has not yet produced a lighter-than-air creature that flies without effort, to live in the sky and feed on the clouds. Fart to Fly. Peeing poo plop-plop.

How much does a butterfly weigh, anyway? I can't find that kind of information on the internet because I can't think straight to find it, I'm just speeding against Google, typing in random stuff, can't get a grip on the useless information because my imagination is fired by Mellow Birds.

Ah, a butterfly weighs the same as two rose petals. That is the most beautiful analogy I have ever experienced, indeed the most beautiful thought I have ever had moving through my mind in my adult life. When I'm gasping my last few breaths out as the cancer ravages my body I will think about the fact that a butterfly weighs the same as two rose petals, but by then both butterflies and roses will be extinct, and the reminder of their loss will make me miserable. As time goes on the amount of butterflies and roses in the world must surely decrease, and that is wrong; it should increase. It is madness of us to create a circumstance in which this is not the case, in which the field mouse lives in fear and the trees are dying. When I go to battle my emblem will be a butterfly, its wings made of two rose petals, and guts will wave in the breeze having been unfurled from the stomachs of those who oppose.

100 butterflies weigh just over 1.22 pounds. You can buy them in bulk, in boxes, fragmentation and white phosphorous butterflies, ready to have the primers stuffed up their bottoms, ready to go BOOOM! and explode just like a woman. (earlier)

...yesterday I shot Terry Wogan, on the cover of his autobiography, 'Is it Me?'. He must have thought he was safe, hiding there, but he was not. Of the four shots I fired, the first three penetrated his nose, chin, and right eye, and the fourth shot penetrated the wall behind him in the photograph, because I closed my eyes for that shot, because the pellets were starting to rebound at me. Wogan lost and I won. He does not know it yet, but he is a dead man.

His head was roughly the same size as the aforementioned roaches, and thus I suggest that the most satisfying way of dealing with them would be via air pistol. Man and his technology vs nature and its technology - who will win? Provided the roaches are stationary, you will. They will die like Vietnamese; you will win the body count war, although in the long run they will eat your corpse and fuck your sunshine. You should rage, rage against the dying of the light! Rape against the dying of the light. Rape the Roach, that's my motto for today.

Chemicals and/or radiation are more economical methods of mass culling, and hold out more hope of a final solution of the cockroach problem, but they do not have the connection between killer and victim that an arises from the use of an airgun pellet. It is an extension of your hand that reaches out to perform the act, and the human hand is God's ultimate creation. No natural object surpasses it; God retired after he designed the human hand, and by using your hand against the roaches you are praising God in the highest. Chemicals, on the other hand - the left hand, the sinister hand - are an expression of another person's brain and a research laboratory and money. They are dishonest. Ultimately chemicals and radiation will win, but they do not exult the human spirit and the human will and the power of God to the same personal degree.

The cockroaches need to know what force is killing them, and you want to feel and see them dying by your hand, the hand of God. Revenge is nothing to be ashamed of. It is natural and wholesome. Our cold war nuclear strategy was based upon it. If one has the means and opportunity of revenge, it would be an insult to oneself not to act. To be. That is my message. To be. Vengeance against the flying menace. God did not trouble Himself overmuch when designing the cockroach; he does not care if you remove them from the universe. They mean nothing to Him.

And the cockroach would do the same to you. How many people before you have been terrorised by these airborne capsules of evil? Like children, they have no capacity for learning from experience, so the only way to deal with them is to kill them. Hang up your heart and obey your guts and your groin. If you are resigned to killing the cockroaches, you might as well take pleasure from it. Shoot them naked. Mock their armoured carapaces, which will not save them. The human animal has no natural armour, it is a fragile creature, a frangible creature, easily pierced and torn, but you are the daddy, the master of the world. Your weapon is your brain. The mission is a man. Your eyes are pies, and theirs are lies.