Dear Diary,
I know not whether I am to play today, at the resident watering hole. If I get word that I am to play (for pittance I might add!) then I must walk eight miles in overcast weather. The bulging sky seems to want to burst, a pregnant stratsosphere will soon no doubt break-water, wind, and inundate the milling mortal masses beneath her bloated blanket of big clouds, cumulonimbus, aye.
I just heard from a local regular that my services are not required this day! Jolly good! I play for precisely ten times the amount at other establishments. Two tonne instead of a score. Aye. Today is dedicated to my studious endeavours. Fifteenth century Burgundy, England, and France. Much as I long to return unto my happy home, I must rest, impoverished, here with Jane. The final fading fumes of paradise-like blessèd leaves depart diffusèd we descend back down unto sobriety. The misty pathways of the mind open up as though a bright sunrise casts her rays over a field of green fecundity filled with flowers. Then. Suddenly. The clouds begin to gather slowly as a small nugget of gak is discovered in the bordellic bedroom of base consummation. Aye. Back. Back On the Flex.
I am a prisoner of my own vice. Trapped by devilish device. Wanton base desire, ardent ecstacy takes us higher. «Alumné moi» [Light my fire].
Max
