Dear Diary,
Inundated with the dreaded drink and vice, smoked out, gone, a haze of blitzed cross-eyed combination hangover cure hair of the dog. I at least managed to get a couple of paragraphs down on the assignment today. Ruysch. Good.
It's a relaxing Saturday picnic to some old Roman ruins, the dwelling-place of mycinoids, magical. Psylocybyn with mine paramour due to a vision Janie'd had in a dream t'other night; well, that and another mutual mate of ours, the very man who introduced Janie and I to one another, had said that the shrooms had been seen up and about already, early this season. Colourful fields of ancient remnants rainbows and prismatic hues. A myriad variations of stained-glass eyes, the swift ascendancy into a more illusionary perception. Imagined phantasms and pixie-people who exist, at least awhile, until the gradual descent. Its been so long since I've indulged in a foraging field fungii fiesta. Perhaps only two years (for I forsake all heavy drugs and playing computer games, since I began studying towards my History degree. Anyway. If Lady Luck sees fit to smile down on us blessèd couple, we might find, neath the thunderous clouds in the Indian summer heat: some mycinoids. The little people, from under the trees, bushes and briars. Aye.
Maximus Fleximus.
