It had as always been a strange few weeks truth is an encumbrance, or a wearisome burden, and for the boy who cried wolf more so.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

Poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge

As the earthquake took hold, The True face of imperialism is showing it,s racist self in Haiti. Under the mask of humanatarain aid it took Matthew Price to awake him into the reality of there plight in one of the most haunting radio broadcast it was as though a ghost had walked through him, the truth of his own self become once more a shadow as he got drunk Friday night at the last weekend of The Shakespeare pub, recovered on the Saturday, the privileges of life become to clear and then on a Sunday he crept around the derelict Woollen Signs Sheffield the thoughts he could not remove from the suffering in Haiti, the grand hypocrisy of humanity in moments like this he could smell the bullshit, on Sunday night he got so drunk in a vain effort to run from himself it was no use.

He woke Monday hungover feeling more down, drink and fucking Bipolar do not seem to get along it was a rough day of paranoia each noise was 10 times more than normal, He had to face loved ones though he had once more trespassed against them, it was neither of any fucking use to sit down, the last truth session in the grave yard had somewhat backfired on himself, so like a cat who had been out all night he made his appearance then left, the disagreement was only half an hour of we went at least he got a hug, but he was not to delude myself in moments like this was hard.

There he was stuck inside himself with the blues, giving front all was well, then life has this fucking ugly habit of  kicking you when you are low, Haiti kept coming into his head, so what if he was at a station in the cold winter of Jan, he would get home to his very minimalist home, he could goto bed on his own not amongst the dead awake to food love life. He had the privilege to eat food and drink, He could ignore some of the conversation, but like an hammer blow to the head what he had worked out was told to you once more, at the time it was the boy who cried wolf so the spoken word was not even going to register.

The ugly habit of kicking him when one is low come back for some more he got on the bus back to the very minimalist home just simply laying on the bed, he fell into an half sleep the tears on his face, it was now Thursday, he had to get from this low, a day of just playing music Radio Four and Six and reading, adding to his the project The Big Ego Orchestra and a walk in the late afternoon.

Waking in a better mood The PMT had gone, though the pain was still there, it would take the extinction of capitalism to ensure the survival of the species, sometimes the company of the self was what was needed, he had planed a walk so on Friday night he had met a friend to get some images from Woodiside there was 20 and very dark in there context, another disgruntlement and by 8 0 clock he was home, it was simply made up for on Saturday a walk out to Mother Prioress Carmelite Monastery Kirk Edge High Bradfield he never knew about, it was a wonderfull winters day of sunshine there was still some snow on the ground, stooping at the pub in High Bradfield a walk around the church grounds, then onto Bradfield Water Works a walk onto the former Claremont House where in the summer of 2008 three men stand to have a piss, down the drive in the overgrown grounds was Claremont House, they was on there way to Hepworths it would only be in 2009 they would find Claremont House on a return to Hepworths and what a find, in Dec 2009 he was told of work going on to clear the grounds 2010 he was stood there at dusk on mild Saturday in Jan.

Sleep should have taken over but another night of his body in pain, his mind was on fire though he should ha slept like a baby, then Sunday loomed and the ghost of inhumanity was to pass through him once more, meanwhile people call him a selfish thought less cunt, so what the fuck are the looking at in the mirror each morning, time to rid ourselfs of this albatross named capitalism.

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